Domino Theory
by Shiggity Shwa
Summary: With personal problems preoccupying each member of Team One none of them were ready for what happened that Friday afternoon. Concerns all main characters. Set AU during after 4x05  AU as in Wordy is still around .
1. Late

_A/N: Hey guys. This is my first Flashpoint Fanfic. I know I'm excited too. It's set Season 4 AU. Au mainly because I decided to keep Parkinson's Wordy, because it takes more than that for me to get rid of Wordy (major Wordy lover here). Anyway, the team knows about his diagnosis. This story is set around the time of 4x05, but once the newer episodes air, I might work in new information. The story is all 6 main character based (I tried to make it as lifelike as an episode as possible) with a bar separating a change in character, although I cannot promise I will continue to use this format in later chapters as the story layout may conflict. This story will also be heavily based on their family lives, because the show promised us that and I'm wanting more than they're delivering. But I promise more police-y action in later chapters (chapter 3 to be exact). Now that you've read my Stephen King length intro please enjoy.  
><em>

**Disclaimer: I own nothing**

Domino Theory

Chapter 1

Late

Sam places his ear to the smooth surface of the treated wooden door and listens expertly for any indication for running water. His ear begins to grow warm under his body's proximity to the bathroom door and he chances a glance at his watch. It's quarter to seven. If they don't leave now being late is a definite possibility.

"Jules." His balled fist hits the door again like he's going to toss in a flash bomb and retrieve her himself. He wonders momentarily if he would even win in that situation, or if going tactical would only prove to piss Jules off more. Their relationship is already burdened without Natalie being a constant addition. It would be nice to spend time with just his girlfriend without having to worry about prying eyes or third parties.

Jules cracks open the door fully clothed, her hair done and from what he can tell her makeup is finished. He wonders exactly what she's doing in the bathroom at quarter to seven when she looks fine. "Are you almost done?"

It's not that worried about being late, but if they both show up at the exact same time or if they're late on the exact same day; warnings will be issued, transcripts will be read and Toth, Sarge or both will catch on.

Jules holds up her index finger. "I just need a minute and a half."

"Jules—"

"You can set an egg timer if you want."

"We're going to be late."

"Then go." Her tone isn't vindictive and she disappears behind the closed door for half a second before reappearing and tossing him his car keys in a low underhand throw.

They thump against his chest as his eyes widen in surprise. Are they having a fight? Or did they just sidestep a fight? He doesn't mind that she takes forever to get ready. In fact, he likes it; it's one of her high school qualities that she never quite grew out of. And he loves to watch her get ready. He sets his clock early just so he can watch her curl her hair. It's an action that seems so un-Jules-like but at the same time that iron is imbued with all her qualities. Makeup is his favorite though. She has to stand on her tiptoes to reach the mirror over his sink and the position she takes to keep her balance is sexy as hell. "Are you—"

She slaps him in the chest playfully the force of the gesture almost sends him a full step back. "I'm not mad Sam. I get the implications of us both being late on the same day. Besides I have to run to my place after work. I'll take my car."

He gives her a lopsided grin, knowing that he's safely out of the doghouse at least for now. "In that case." He takes a step forward, his arms circling lazily around her jean clad waist until they find the back pockets. His nose nuzzles into the side of her neck and for the hundredth time since he got up, he wonders how he got to so lucky that she come over to his apartment that one night five months ago. "I guess I'll see you tonight."

"Sam." She detangles from him as quickly as possible by placing her hands on his biceps and forcing him back at arm's length. "You're going to be late." Without as much as a kiss goodbye the bathroom door clicks closed behind her.

* * *

><p>He tries not to stare at the family portraits as he walks down the hallway that's shrunk over the years. There's a spot just a few steps left of the outlet where there's a nasty dip in the floor and if he walks over it, it's going to let out a loud squeal. He's learned that through sneaking out during his rebellious teenage years.<p>

From the other side of the gray, dawn-stained hallway resonates a hacking cough. The kind that makes his stomach feel first date nervous. When he first started hearing them a year ago he begged his dad to go see a doctor. He even offered to drive. His dad wouldn't listen. They were never good at listening to each other. It took a full six months and the whole family hounding until his father was finally diagnosed as terminal. Since he was going to die it was time to play God.

His mother waddles out of Carmen's room, which they're using as his dad's 'hospital room'. It was originally supposed to be changed into a home gym but sometimes wishes are like goldfish without propellers. His mother wipes her hands on the patchwork apron she's had since the beginning of time. He hasn't got the heart to tell her that much like everything else in this house; it's gone out of style. He's not sure it really matters anymore.

"Michelangelo." His mother still smiles warmly at him. She probably always will, but sleepless nights are building walls behind her eyes and that's introducing resentment because it's like all of this could be settled with his letter of resignation. Like his dad's thirty years of smoking leading to inoperable lung cancer wouldn't exist. Poof.

He swallows the bitterness and lets his own smile reach his cheeks, real genuine like. "Hey Ma." They meet in the middle hall and he places a kiss on her cheek. It's squishy, wet and cold and he knows that she's been crying but they've replayed this conversation so many times before that he can't bring himself to repeat it over again.

"You're up early."

"No, I got up late." He adjusts his gym bag so she knows that he's going into work. So she doesn't get the wrong idea. He isn't succumbing to their peer pressure yet.

Her lips roll into each other and disappear for a few seconds. It's something she does when she's disappointed in him, an action he knows well from childhood. "Well, I'll make you some breakfast."

"I can't Ma." He shakes his head and gives her another quick kiss on the cheek as he pushes past her in the hallway. The same hallway she chased him down with a wooden spoon for eating cannolis off the cooling rack. "I gotta go to work."

"Mikey, when is this gonna stop?" She doesn't follow him, but watches him with tears peeking in the corners of her eyes. "He's not asking for much. You only have one father."

"Yeah and some days when I go into work I save kids' fathers. Other days I save kids from their fathers." He starts walking again aware that his mom is following him, begging him to do something to appease his dying father. It's like something out of Shakespeare. He doesn't really listen to the words anymore. He doesn't even get upset about the constant flow of them, or their insinuation.

He reaches the screen door in the kitchen and he stops. Usually he keeps going because it's easier just to go to work and make a difference and deal with the very real issues of the world than the clouded judgments of his parents. His mom is full out crying now, cheeks tainted white in the fluorescent light of the kitchen in the morning. He stares at his shoes, scuffless and buffed by the same woman. "Some parents would be proud to have a son like me."

* * *

><p>"Dad, you said you would take me tonight."<p>

"I know I did Clark, but I forgot I have Daddy and Me class with Izzy. We'll just have to go a different night." Ed doesn't look up from the newspaper he's frantically flipping through that's blocking the view of his teenage son. He's just looking for the hockey highlights before hopefully heading into work early and maybe getting in his first decent workout session in a month.

Sophie left early to head to the bank to sign papers for her new catering business. Clark doesn't have to be at school for another two hours, so he's agreed to watch Izzy this morning. Ed loves his family, his wife, his son and his new baby girl, but part of him has been craving more time with the boys in blue.

It feels like he's been taking on more of the parent role then Sophie since she's realized her dream of owning a business. He does the late night feedings. He does the diaper changes. He even takes care of everything for Clark, which isn't that much because at sixteen, the kid should be taking care of himself. He doesn't really remember the last time he saw her hold Izzy. He worries because with Clark she was so hands on, she had to be hands on and now it's like she's letting Izzy's milestones slip through her fingers.

Part of him wonders if she's doing it on purpose to show him how he was with Clark, or if it's postpartum depression but every time he tries to talk to her about it, she blows him off. She has errands to run, or papers to sign or new recipes to try or interviews to conduct. He just wants his kids to have two fully functioning parents.

"Dad, you promised."

"No, no." He sets down the paper for a moment and glances at his son, who is leaning over the table and is in desperate need of a haircut. "I would never have promised it if I didn't think I could've kept it."

"My test is next week and still I don't know how to parallel park." The modest kitchen echoes with the cadence of Clark's voice.

"Who's fault is that Buddy?"

Clark pushes back from the table and crosses his arms over his chest in a huff. "It's yours. I didn't choose to live in a house with an infant sister at this age."

"Watch the tone."

"No. This crap has been happening ever since Izzy got here." Clark shakes his head, sandy curls in his green eyes once again and then he's gone from the kitchen as quickly as he escalated.

"Clark," Ed warns as they weave through the dining room. He thought he wouldn't have to deal with the real teenage drama for another sixteen years. Girls during their teenage years are twenty times worse than boys. That's the general consensus. Boys as children are horrible but girls as teens are deadly. Here was Clark, his boy, proving him wrong with the amount of unnecessary drama.

"Every time we're supposed to do something you blow me off the second something with Izzy comes up." Clark shoves his feet into already laced sneakers and grabs his backpack from the floor. "If it's that much of a burden I'll find someone else to teach me."

Ed sighs and tries not to laugh at the ridiculous concept of talking down his teenage son from walking out the front door so that he might have an hour to himself to workout. "Okay look. I know that things have been hard with Izzy lately—" He forgets to keep his voice down and from upstairs Izzy's cries echo. Ed stops in mid sentence and runs a coarse hand over his fatigued face. He and Clark then stare at each other, waiting until the other makes the first move.

Clark sighs and runs a hand through his mess of hair and then points to the stairs. "Go."

Ed chuckles and claps a hand on Clark's shoulder before turning towards the stairs. "See that's what being a big brother is about."

"Hey Dad," Clark called to him when he's halfway up the stairs.

"Yeah?" For the sake of time Ed doesn't stop but begins to take the stairs slower. He's hopes that Izzy just needs a quick diaper change or feeding.

"Just because you weren't there for me when I was a kid, doesn't mean you can't be there for me now." Clark slams the door at the end of his sentence and the chances of Ed's early workout leave with his son. Upstairs in his unused workout room, Izzy continues to cry.

* * *

><p>"Dad?" Lilly's fingers curl around the side of the door as she peers into the bedroom.<p>

Wordy grins at his daughter's half-closed eyes as he pulls a light blue long-sleeved shirt on over his plain white t-shirt. "Ladybug, what are you doing up."

"I don't feel good." She presses her cheek into the side of the bedroom door and watches as he fumbles with the buttons on the front of his shirt.

"You don't feel good." He repeats and the buttons lose his attention. He opens the door to let Lilly in and bends on his knees so that he's level with her. Then places a hand to her forehead and finds her temperature normal. "What's wrong?"

She leans her tiny shoulders into the wall and shrugs. The blue eyes she inherited from Shelly won't meet him and he's beginning to catch on. "You're not sick are you?" She downcasts her eyes, thick lashes fanning out to block him from view. "Lilly?"

Two thick tears roll down her cheeks and she shakes her head. "No."

He uses the pad of his thumb to gently rub away the tears, and then turns her chin up so she has to look him in the eye. "Then what's the matter? Are you having bad dreams again?"

"No."

He tucks her brown hair behind her ears, smoothing it back, trying to comfort her the way he's been doing so often lately. Kids are intuitive. They know when something's wrong. He and Shelley haven't been fighting but they've been discussing. Options and priorities and whether surgery would be a viable decision in the future. "Was it daddy's cooking last night? Because that was mom's idea."

She giggles and smiles with a mouth full of perfect teeth. Something else clearly inherited from Shelley. "No."

"Then what's the matter?"

She turns away again and her fingers find the frill edge on her nightgown. He takes her hand in his own, small frail fingers that disappear in the creases of his palm when he closes his hand. "There's a mean boy at school."

"What do you mean 'there's a mean boy?'"

"He's mean to me." She speaks with a nasally voice that reminds him to pick up more of her allergy medication. She sniffs loudly as two more tears trek down her cheeks and dangle from her chin.

"How?"

"He calls me names and—" she furrows her brows in painful memory as her eyes become glassy and puffy with tears. "And—and he pushes me down. H-he took my snack too."

"Hey, hey." He pulls her away from the wall and against his chest where she continues to tremble and cry. "Lilly, did you tell your teacher?"

"He's in a different class." Her mouth moves against his shoulder and he can feel the warmth of her tears permeate his shirt's fabric.

"Okay." He puts an arm underneath her boney legs and as he lifts her off the ground, she wraps her arms around his neck. He moves so that the tip of his nose touches hers and they both smile.

"You know what I'm going to do?" Lilly sniffles and shakes her head.

"I'm going to stop in your school today and have a talk to your teacher or principal about this boy, What's his name?"

"Martin."

"Oh well, he's just mad because his name rhymes with farting."

Lilly giggles again, her eyes clear of tears as the problem is irradiated by his promise. He wishes that all their problems could be solved this easily. He wishes that his dad was still around so he could ask him what to do about the early onset Parkinson's. Or the idea of Shelley going back to work at the daycare even though he loves being able to provide for his family and his girls having their mother at home. Or about the team and how even though they've been accepting of his disability, they don't look or treat him the same. Or how a twenty-year friendship can slowly unravel over something so trivial.

"Daddy?" Lilly questions with half-closed blue eyes.

She leans her head against his shoulder and he smiles. "Yeah Ladybug?'

"I love you."

He kisses the top of her head and wonders if he'll be able to walk her down the aisle at her wedding. "I love you too."

* * *

><p>"Morning Boss," Winnie greets with a grin.<p>

Greg stops in the dim morning light splashed across the floor on his way to the locker room. The position of the sun outside stretches and thins his shadow and he absentmindedly thinks that it might rain. "You know Winnie; I think this is the first time I've seen you without that headset on."

Winnie chuckles and smooths out the bottom of her hair between two flattened palms to accentuate his statement. Then takes a seat at the desk where she'll be spending the next twelve hours. "We're breaking records today."

"Hopefully not." Greg crosses over to the desk and pulls out an envelope from his pocket. Inside is a semi-formal gold script invitation, a three-page letter written in cursive and a plane ticket. When Winnie looks to him for an explanation he precedes, "Dean is graduating from high school this weekend and he sent me this in the mail a few months ago. I booked today off as soon as I found out, but with everything that's happened recently I thought it was best to come in for a half-day that's hopefully uneventful."

"I'm sure it will be Boss."

Greg nods. Though the team's probation is a good reason to come to work today, he needs something to keep his mind off meeting his son for a second time in ten years. It's exciting; meeting the boy he left behind so long ago. Learning about what he plans to do with his future. Learning about what he missed; did he ever learn to drive? That was a big issue last time. But there's also a forceful trepidation. The last time Dean wanted to see him it was to get him to back off. What if he wanted to see him now for a similar reason?

He clears his throat when he realizes that Winnie is still watching him. He has a four hour flight to go crazy thinking up scenarios. Instead he worries about the people he doesn't see now, because HQ is a little too calm for a Friday morning. He checks his watch and is a little shocked when it reads quarter to seven. After spending an hour this morning rechecking his luggage, he left fifteen minutes late and was sure he wouldn't be at HQ before seven.

Then something strikes him. Slowly he examines the main room and the connecting weight room. "Winnie, has anyone else from Team One made it in yet?"

"Hmmm." She slaps her fingers over the computer keys with expert precision and for the first time he notices that she's managed to put on the headset sometime during their conversation. "No boss, none of Team One are accounted for as of yet."

"Well they've still got fifteen minutes. A lot can happen in fifteen minutes." He lets out a dry chuckle and rubs a hand over the back of his head where it connects to his neck. He feels the tension already beginning to grow.

Outside the sky releases a low guttural grumble as a warning preceding the predestined rain. He knows that there's no way today is going to be uneventful. Rain, thunderstorms, even Fridays make people insane. Even if nothing happens during the shift, what are the chances that his plane won't be cancelled due to inclement weather?

He sighs, still rubbing his neck. "And here I thought I was going to be late."

* * *

><p>This is not how she imagines it happening. But it's not like little girls sit around planning out this event like they plan out their weddings. She doesn't even have her wedding planned out. She can't even think of any of that right now because she's still trying to get over the fact that she's perched on the edge of Sam's tub waiting. Just waiting.<p>

She wonders if Sam really did go to work or if he's waiting to ambush her in the living room. It's a ridiculous thought but she wouldn't put the idea past him. He'd probably think it was funny. Funny to make her scared. Funny to make her squirm. Funny to put her in the exact position she's in right now. But as she thinks of Sam lying in wait, it makes her smile.

She sighs, a quick exhalation of breathe through her mouth and places her fidgeting hands between her knees. She looks at her watch, she told Sam she needed exactly a minute and a half and she wasn't lying. Now it was more like a minute. The longest minute of her lifetime. She's been shot, long range by a sniper rifle, and this is the longest minute of her life. It doesn't bode well for her prospective life choices.

One reason it's so long is she keeps falling back on those damn psych evaluations:

"Who do you like more your mom or your dad?"

"Well since I never got to meet my mom and my dad a just a tad overbearing—"

She wonders what the psychologists would think of this. She wonders what's going to happen when Toth gets the memo that explains what happened in this forty second interlude in Sam's bathroom that caused her to be late this Friday morning. She wonders who's going to leave Team One her or Sam? How's that argument going to go? If Sarge and everyone else will be in on that one?

She looks at her watch, twenty seconds now. She's sitting across from that damn psychologist again. They never have faces. She'll never tell them that because that's just another big can of worms that would involve a multilevel conversation. "Julianna tell me, why did you feel that Sam Braddock didn't need to be involved in your pregnancy scare."

Scare. Because that's all it is. Okay, so it's not like the idea of having a baby was so farfetched to her. When Sophie was pregnant she was beautiful and happy. Izzy was adorable and Wordy's girls were all gorgeous. But that was before she and Sam had gotten back together. They were already on a precarious bridge with the whole 'sneaking-around-behind-everyone's-back thing'. Not to mention the fact that Natalie being omnipresent weight around their neck was already a burden.

What would she even do anyways? She waited out the second hand on her watch as it ticked away at the final ten. It's not like she could go out into the field pregnant. Could she even go out into the van pregnant? She's almost positive that no one in the history of the SRU had been pregnant before. No one on Team One for sure. Then it hit her. If she did this, there was a good chance she was not going to make it back on Team One, let alone the SRU.

Settle down. She needed to settle down. The back of her thighs were being to burn from where the edge of Sam's ceramic tub was digging into them. There's nothing to be getting upset about anyways it's just a scare. Time was up. It was time to find out that this was a scare and then no one would ever know about it. About how her stomach feels void and ignited at the same time. About how she can count her heartbeats and she's not even moving. About how no stakeout, or break-in or anything else she's experienced working at the SRU has made her feel this nervous. No one would know but her.

From the other side of the bathroom door she hears the muffled sound of the front door open and close and then an overnight back hitting the ground hard. Her breath hitches in her throat and she prays that Sam is lying in wait in the living room.

A few seconds pass with only the clicking of stilettos against hardwood. Then Natalie's voice rings in from the other side of the door, "Jules?"

"Yeah?" She tries to bury her face in her hands. There's no escaping this. But she can try. She jumps from the side of the tub and places the pregnancy test box in the half full trash and pulls out the bag.

"Are you still here?" No.

"Yeah" Her voice trails off as she takes a last second glance at the instructions and tosses them too. Then her attention moves to the dreaded stick sitting in solidarity on the edge of the sink.

"Aren't you going to be late?"

Jules stares at the white stick and at the two lines staring back at her. "I already am."

* * *

><p><em>Next chapter up next weekend.<br>If you liked it please review. If you really liked it, please read it again and enjoy.  
>PS - Bonus points if anyone can tell me what Wordy's third daughter's name is (Lilly, Ally and blank?) and what Spike's sibling's name and gender is (do we even know?)<br>_


	2. No Full Moon

_A/N: Hey Guys. First off thank you all so much for the kind and inspiring reviews you left me. Knowing how much you loved the story definitely made writing it worth while and I'm glad I was able to keep everyone in character and play to the family fantasies that we so desperately need in the show. That being said Wordy and Spike are definitely the easiest to write with Sam coming in a close third. I really don't like Ed that much (can you tell) and Greg and Jules are too complicated haha. I **love** to hear your favorite parts. It literally makes my 8 or 12 hour (depending on how crazy I am that night) graveyard shift go by so much quicker. I also try to connect the segments by having running themes throughout them, so see if you can spot them (like Waldo). Many thanks to those of you who favorited/alerted and what not. Now on to the general stuff. This chapter is more flashback-y/lighthearted than probably any other one will be but there is a few swears in it (as I like to consider myself a swear poet) so sorry if that offends. Also the patrolling partnerships were weird at the time that I started writing this chapter (circa August 6th) but last week's episode kinda wrecked that weirdness. So boo to that. Just go with it I guess. There are reasons for the pairings which will be disclosed in next weeks action-packed police-y chapter. Lastly, I don't like Raf. Just sayin'. _

Domino Theory

Chapter 2

No Full Moon

The circular button under the '6' illuminates after he rams his palm into it for a second time. If Jules were here she'd give him shit for taking the elevator. It would start with her asking some neutral question in a sarcastic tone along the line of, "Did I see you limp earlier?" Or "Something wrong with your leg, Sam?"

He'd answer with a clueless, "No."

She'd continue that six flights of stairs was nothing compared to what they had to handle during a shift and that taking the stairs was a good way to start it off and stay in shape.

"Maybe I like to take my time and relax before work," he'd mutter and mash the button to close the elevator doors. Those were the types of conversations they held before they got back together. Of course she'd ride with him the six floors, reaming him out the entire time. Still every time he saw her coming through the main lobby doors, he got in the elevator just to have some private interaction with her that didn't involve tactics or guns.

He loves their elevator rides now. There's a sense of normalcy when they're trapped in the metal cab. Normalcy that's completely absent from their day-to-day relationship. It makes his fingers twitch when he thinks about it. He can hold her bag while she frantically searches for her phone only to realize that she's left it on his bedside table. He can tuck her hair behind her ear, or let his hand brush against hers, or fix her shirt strap. Completely mundane things ordinary couples do on instinct. Things he's suppressed for the past five months. Things he's still suppressing.

He'd been dating her exclusively for the last five months and he still can't tell a soul about it. Like, say the other members of Team One, his surrogate family. In fact, he's probably closer to them than he is with his real family. Closer to them than anyone else, well, anyone he isn't currently involved with. He had to practically blackmail Natalie with extended hospitality and car services not to tell the General or his mom or anyone she met for a brief interlude at the SRU when she wanted his car about him or Jules. Natalie still brings it up when she wants something, and it usually makes him cave. He just wants to protect Jules' and his privacy.

In a sick way he feels like he's in Romeo and Juliet. Sam forces his thoughts ahead like skipping through a lousy song on an otherwise good CD. He knows how that play ends and it places him in a morbid disposition. Then he flashes back to Jules lying there on the rooftop, blood spilling out of her. How fucked up is it that goes to work with the girl he loves every day, doesn't touch her or tell a soul about her and then watches helplessly while she puts her life in danger?

Onetime, a few months after they started re-dating as he calls it, he and Jules were feeling adventurous. Actually, she was about to explode from being cooped up in his apartment for the last three months. They managed to grab a cab and made it out to a bar without being recognized by a soul and had a few beers while watching some sports game.

It was the only time in their relationship that Sam was drunk enough to talk to her conscience-free about how he worried about her on the job. How he'd failed her once and he was terrified that he would fail her again. How he would definitely break the priority of life code to save her. He drunkenly rambled on about it until they made it back to his apartment, happily Natalie free that night. Then he asked her in a wistful slur, "Why'd you have to be a sniper?"

"Because someone told me, 'Lady snipers are sexy.' It kinda stuck."

The alarm woke him up the next morning. His neck hurt from lying on it the wrong way for the last six hours and Jules was dead asleep across his chest, one of her legs hung over the side of the bed. His gray bed sheets were uprooted from the bottom of the bed and tangled around both of them like a python. The rest of the room didn't look any better and he wondered when exactly they went from having a few beers to having a college kegger.

The incessant screech of his bedside alarm didn't faze her, but when he turned to hit the snooze button the combination of seeing that it was almost six o'clock along with the sharp pain in his neck made his chest seize and that movement woke her in an instant.

"What?" She pushed herself off him in one swift movement and clenched the majority of the sheets in another.

"Jules." He was rubbing his neck and struggling to sit up when the hangover from hell hit him. The ice pick drilled into his temple and bore in behind his eyes, which felt strangely void of moisture. It reminded him of the mornings after dangerous nights of sneaking six packs into the General's basement. He wrenched his eyes shut and pressed on them with his palms. "It's almost six."

"What?" When he looked up, she was rubbing her temples hard in a circular motion, her eyebrows falling in the same pain he felt.

"It's almost six. We're going to be late for work."

"Shit," she muttered and pushed herself off the bed and to his bathroom. By the time he had collected enough of his equilibrium to stand, she was already out of the bathroom, looking just as perfect as ever. She placed a cool hand on his temple when she kissed him goodbye and it

made him grin.

He saw her later at work where she again seemed completely unperturbed. He guessed that's why she was a sniper, because to the untrained eye, she was completely unreadable. But when he passed her in the hall and stealthy handed her his bottle of aspirin, she didn't give it back until that night.

He on the other hand looked and felt like shit and the guys gave him a ribbing for it. Pulling out their 'Samtastic' comments and asking about the details of his sordid night. Though he didn't expel anything that would give away himself or Jules and was in no way ungentlemanly, their own imaginations made insinuations that gave him a boost in self-confidence. Needless to say Jules made him feel like a rock star.

The elevator dings and the metallic doors slide open to reveal an eerily empty SRU darkened by the tempestuous sky crowding the bay windows in the briefing room. In the barren lobby, the Sarge leans with his back against Winnie's desk. His head angles down, the top of it catching the light from the overhead fluorescent bulb.

"Sarge? Where is everyone?"

"Sam." Greg adeptly folds up a piece of paper that looks like a letter and places it in the back pocket of his pants. "Congratulations." Greg smiles to show that his sarcasm should not be interpreted as genuine. "You're the first one to the party."

"No one's here yet?" He scans the room again, wondering if Jules is in the girl's locker room. If she hasn't left his apartment yet she's in trouble, there was an accident on the corner of Bay and King and there's no way she's going to make it here before seven. He'll text her in the locker room just in case.

"No, but everyone still has-" Greg checks his watch and sighs. "Nine minutes. A lot can happen in nine minutes."

"You seem really optimistic today, Boss."

"Yeah well, getting to see your kid'll do that to you."

Sam nods. He remembers Ed saying something about the Boss flying out to Dallas sometime this month but didn't know it was going to be this week, or today. Not that it's a problem, but stormy Fridays are hardly anything to be mocked of in their job. Then rethinking the Sarge's position, Sam wonder's what he's even doing here at all.

"I know, I know." Greg holds up his hands and laughs. At first Sam thinks that the Sarge's incredulous laughs are for his own insanity. To come in on a day like today when he has a plane to catch. Then Sam realizes it's because Sarge is talking with him about kids. Like out of everyone at the SRU he had to come to Sam, the one guy who's got no experience with kids.

"I grew up with two little sisters. One is still living with me." He groans because she's not so much of a little sister as she is a house cat. He thinks of the warzone his extra room is and the extra drama Natalie is trickling into his life. He likes being in Toronto. Hell, he liked being in Iraq, because he was at a distance from his family. Don't get him wrong, he loves them, but they always manage to drag him back in—"I know about taking care of kids."

"Yeah, but it's different when they're your own."

"Yeah," Sam sighs. He's had this conversation with his mom at least ten times within the last year. "When am I going to get a grandchild, Sam?" or "You're old enough now to start thinking about people other than yourself, Sam." Their last phone call ended with him telling her bluntly that it wasn't going to happen this year or next. His mom didn't call him at her usual time this month.

It's not like Jules would ever want a baby, although she does coo over Izzy. He doesn't really know her views; they've really never talked about it. Though they are in a semi-serious alcove in their relationship, serious enough to not want anyone else and pretend to be happy with what they have with each other. Conversations concerning marriage, a house with a big backyard and three kids have never come up. They always get stuck in his throat. Hell, he'd be happy if they could just move in together, but he doesn't see that ever happening. Especially since Natalie's about a week away from choosing paint colors for his extra bedroom.

Natalie's words also managed to skew his plans. He was pretty sure he was happy enough to be Team Leader and sneak around with Jules in a semi-serious relationship on the side. Natalie basically called his bluff and told him to decide where he wanted his future to be. Sometime before he could talk to Jules about deciding, Ed came back to the team and the leadership position was whisked out of Sam's hands. He didn't mind though, sending Jules purposely into active shooters crosshairs wasn't a perk he was looking for in a job description.

He was ready to make a full commitment to her, but he always had inopportune timing when he tried to talk to her about their relationship. Then events, like this morning, and her mixed actions made him doubt that she loved him half as much as he loved her and he thinks of rooftop bullets and coffee shop breakups. "I definitely need to wait a few years before kids happen."

* * *

><p>What is poking him? Something is poking him. He sighs adjusting the gym bag strap that keeps drifting down his shoulder as he tries to take the second set of stairs at the fourth floor in one bound. He makes it to stair six, stumbles backwards and takes a few seconds to regain his composure by leaning against the cement wall in the dim stairwell.<p>

He would be using the elevator, but the one time Jules caught him and gave him the scolding of a lifetime. Then he tried to do it again and she was inside the elevator when it opened. He managed to mutter a few broken syllables before running to the stairwell. She might be a little harsh but she's keeping them all alive a little longer with her stairwell workout routine.

Spike takes a deep inhalation and continues on his trek. Only six more steps and then it's only one more floor. He brings his knees up high to avoid catching the rim of his shoe against the lip of the stair and avoid—there it is. There it is again. Something is poking him through his back pocket. When did he wear these pants last?

Well, Ma usually does laundry on Sundays, and it's a Friday, so-Oh God. Please do yourself a favor Spike, and never say that sentence out loud. Ever. All the females in the GTA will immediately know. They just will. They deserve too.

He sighs, pressing his forehead into the cool, porous concrete. Did he imagine his life would be like this ten years ago? Five years ago? Last year? He used to go out more. He used to have a best friend to go out with. Now the only people that he knows who are close to his age are either Catholic church-goers and Sam and Jules. It's not like he can ask them one day if they want to go bar hopping after work. Not Jules because, well, she won't let him use the elevator and not Sam because, well-

Sam uses the elevator all the time. Spike resumes climbing the stairs languid legs flaccid like overcooked fettuccini. He used the elevator this morning. He sees him in there, sometimes with Jules too. She probably bitches Sam out all the way up too and he probably likes it.

Spike stop thinking like this. His hand covers his eyebrows as he takes a deep, shaky breath. "This is misplaced anger, Buddy." He tells himself because he has no one else to talk to that can tell him so. Sometimes he misses Lew more than others. This is one of those times.

His hand falls down on the metal door handle and the door clicks open. In the short time that it takes for him to push the door open, he composes himself and walks into the SRU looking like everyday common Spike.

"Spike," Greg greets. Spike jumps because at first he doesn't see his boss. He doesn't see anyone really, but then the door closes and Greg claps a hand to Spike's shoulder. "You made it."

"Yeah, sorry if I'm a little—"

"You're here. You're seven minutes early. It's great." Greg grins and outside thunder churns in a low rumble.

Spike wants to offer him a reason, but he can't think of one that isn't overly personal. So instead when he opens his mouth he lets out a small yip because there is seriously something sharp digging through his pants and into his- "Okay, what the hell is that?"

Throwing down his gym bag he reaches into his back pocket and retrieves a long silver earring with no back. It's a stud with a green stone in it because she was born in August and last night and-"Oh yeah." He smiles for a second but then it's gone and he replaces the earring quickly. "Oh yeah."

Greg laughs, apparently amused by the whole situation. "I really don't need an explanation. Just go get changed."

"Yeah." He nods and proceeds to get the hell out of there before he has to tell the boss what he did last night and with whom. He hangs his head as he ambles to the locker room, like he's doing the whole walk of shame from the hotel all over again. That's another thing he's not impressed with, why'd he have to take her to a hotel last night?

"Well I live with my parents."

"Well I live with my—"

"Sam," he yells unnecessarily when he opens the door and finds his blond teammate changing his shirt.

"Spike?" He greets with a cocked eyebrow and an unsure expression that's partially blocked by him pulling a shirt over his head. Sam's cell phone beeps and he loses interest in Spike's weird mannerisms.

Shit. Shit. Shit. Spike shoves his hand in his back pocket because suddenly Sam may have x-ray vision or he can see metal through things or something. He just knows that Spike has this earring. He knows what went down last night.

"How was your night?" Sam asks absently without looking up from his phone as his thumbs click over the keys. "Don't use Bay," he mutters to the phone.

"Fine. Fine." Shit. Shit. Shit. Sam was in the army. Spike doesn't remember his exact title, but he's sure it evolved a lot of ass kicking. When he glances up Sam is watching him, blue eyes set under low brows as if waiting for more. "It was fine."

"Yeah." Sam nods, his expression unchanging. His eyes are still regarding Spike, but he has his phone in his hand to answer it if it beeps back. "I got that."

"How-how was your night?" Spike questions as he starts to rummage through his gym bag like a wild animal in hopes of finding some place where he can bury this earring and give it back to her later. What does he mean give it back to her later? Are they going to see each other again? Did they decide that? He doesn't remember that. She said she'd phone him. Oh God, what if she phones him at work. What if she phones Sam to ask him? He should flush this earring like it's illegal drugs.

Sam shrugs and Spike notices the muscles in his back bunch with the action. God, Sam's going to kick his ass. The thoughts of being pummeled by Sam, not to death,` but to a painful level of existence begin to amass in his brain and while he's stuck on an image of Sam going somewhere between Rocky and Rambo on him, he drops the earring and it skitters across the floor with a ting.

"What was that?" Sam questions looking up from his phone for a moment.

"Nothing." But Spike's on the ground searching for the earring that could ruin a friendship and the finely placed features of his face. His hand presses into the thick layer of dust under the lockers and he wonders why Sam is so quiet until he clears his throat.

Spike turns around to find Sam holding the earring between his thumb and index finger, twirling the green stud for effect. "Is this what you're looking for?"

"Ummm." He draws out the syllable because hopefully he won't have to answer the question. Or that Ed or Sarge or for God's sake, even Jules will come through those doors as a distraction so that he has a chance to think up a story that doesn't involve some wide spun lie.

Sam rolls his eyes and places the earring down on the bench. Then turns his back to Spike to get back to his text messaging. "So you had some fun last night Spike?"

Spike picks up the earring very slowly, like it's a trap. "What do you mean?"

"Well you've got a girl's earring. From my experience that's either a memento or a promise."

Oh God, here it comes. He's going to-wait—what? "Wait. Do you know whose earring this is?"

Sam shrugs and puts his phone in his pocket. "Someone born in August." He tucks in his shirt and then begins to walk towards the doors. "My sister has the same birthstone."

* * *

><p>"I dropped her off at your parent's house, Soph." Ed sighs and holds the bridge of his nose as he talks to his wife over his phone.<p>

He tried to call her earlier, but he guesses the bank meeting was too damn important for her to keep her phone on during it. While he was juggling his screaming and possibly colicky daughter and trying to contact his wife he just kept getting the same ominous message that she 'couldn't be reached at the moment'.

"You're telling me lady," he mumbled into the top of Izzy's soft red hair. "I've been trying to reach her for the past five months."

Becoming desperate as time inched closer to seven. Ed placed Izzy in her play pen, cooing words to her as he raced around the room collecting various items from a change of clothes to fifteen diapers which didn't seem so excessive at the time. He placed her duddy in her mouth and hoisted her back up in his arms. "Come on, Sweetie. Let's go visit grandma and grandpa."

He struggled to control the speed of his van through residential streets only for the toothless grin that greeted him in the rearview mirror whenever he chanced a glance up. When he looked out the side mirror he finally took notice that all he saw were the white divisional lines flickering by on the road.

"Damn it, Clark," he grumbled and adjusted the mirror just on time to see a red Dodge Ram pass him on the left side. The truck was so close; it could've taken his mirror off.

"Slow down," Ed yelled out the window as the car sped off to merge with the rest of Toronto's traffic. Past Ed would've given chase, but he had special cargo in the car this time and his arm burned with the lingering memory of what happened the last time he had a case of road rage.

Sophie's mom was waiting to graciously accept Izzy. With Sophie being an only child, Clark was an only grandchild; Izzy was very welcomed by both of Sophie's parent's even though she came late in life. That didn't make it easier for him to say goodbye.

He spent a lot of time with Izzy. Mainly because he was recovering the same time she was born. After his surgery, when his main priority was physiotherapy, he always made sure to hold her in that arm, to burp her with that arm, to play airplane with her with that arm. They grew together.

Today her mother, her brother and now her father had abandoned her all for their own selfish needs. He handed Izzy to Sophie's mom, but couldn't bring himself to let go of her hand.

"Ed?" Sophie's mom questioned as she bounced the infant on her hip. Is something wrong?

"No." He lied as he shook his head and ran his thumb over Izzy's five perfect little fingers. "I'm just going to miss her. That's all."

He placed a final kiss on the top of her head and turned his back to her. Like her mother did, like her brother did, and climbed back into his van to get to work to 'stop the bad guys'. That's what he would tell her he did one day if she would put up with him that long. He heard her as she began to whimper and then cry for him. When he glanced up before driving back onto the road, she had her tiny arms reaching forward for him.

"I tried to call you Soph," he reiterates to his wife as he throws an empty wave to Greg who's outside the locker room having a conversation with Sam. From the looks of it a short one.

"Well go do something productive until the others arrive." Ed catches Greg saying before Sam does something a little more mature than rolling his eyes and disappears to do restock.

Ed almost chuckles at how a kid who was team leader for four months can still be berated like he's in high school. As Sophie complains in his ear about her schedule and how he will never work around his to fit in her appointments, he wonders vaguely what Sam did.

Before he can sneak by, Greg motions to his watch and Ed adds to the conversation. "I was almost late today Sophie. I snuck in at five to seven. So I'm sorry if you've got to drive fifteen minutes out of the way to pick Izzy up."

Greg smiles at him. It's pure luck that Ed happens to remember that this weekend he flies out to Dallas to go see Dean graduate. He knows the boss'll be in a good mood. "Okay. Okay." Sophie screeches in his ear about not being able to handle this but he knows it's probably for show. "Soph, can we talk about this later?" They agree to talk at supper tonight and he hangs up on her.

"Kids?" Greg asks crossing his arms over his chest and shifting on his feet. This action is children-on-Christmas-morning excited for him.

With one hand Ed puts his phone away and with the other he points to the corner Sam disappeared behind. "Kids?" He asks because he doesn't feel like getting into his familial instability even though he and Greg are close friends. He needs to sort through his life before he talks about it.

Greg chuckles and shakes his head in disbelief. "Some days I swear I work at a high school. Sam and his texting. Spike and his—I don't even know how to describe Spike today, just go meet him."

Ed shares his chuckle and turns to go to the locker room, but stop just short of opening the door. "Hey is Wordy in yet? We were supposed to come in early to work out, but I had to take care of Izzy."

"Ah, he had to play doting father too. I got a message from him about five minutes ago that said he was on his way in."

"Good, I just didn't want him to think that I stood him up or anything."

"Why would he think that?"

* * *

><p>"Unbelievable." Wordy slams his locker door so hard that the clash of metal on metal echoes locker room.<p>

Ed chuckles as Wordy smoothes out his black t-shirt and tucks it into his pants. The two friends have never seen eye-to-eye on parenting techniques, it's the reason that Wordy wasn't hurt when Ed didn't come to him after Izzy was born for advice or help in raising a daughter. What did hurt was not being asked to be her Godfather. He guesses that no one wants a shaky hand touching their new baby.

"You sure you're not overacting?" Ed questions holding his thumb and forefinger an inch apart to indicate a modicum of space. "Just a bit?"

Wordy stops moving for a minute and allows his face to go deadpan. "Do I ever overact?"

"When it comes to Shelley or your girls, all the time."

"This is Lilly we're talking about." He bends over to pull his shoes back on; only it takes his index finger on his right hand three times before it will actually hook around the noose at the back of his shoe. "Lilly," he continues hoping that if he ignores the foible, that Ed will as well. "My little girl who insists we hold a funeral for the trees every winter."

Ed chuckles with his back to Wordy. Then he didn't see. Wordy exhales softly through his mouth as he sits on the bench and begins the arduous task of lacing his shoes. Today is going to be a hard day. Giving his head a shake he blinks once and continues his conversation. "So this kid, Martin, is in the fourth grade and he's been bullying Lilly for the last week."

"So what, you're just going to go to that school dressed in your gear and scare the crap out of that kid?"

"No, I'm going to talk to her principal and her teacher." He pulls the thick black laces back making the shoe as tight as possible because he might not be able to do this again. His fingers move sluggish as they make the first knot and it pains him to think that in less than an hour these hands will be on a gun possibly fastened over someone. As he makes the first bow he thinks of the bunny ears used when he taught Lilly and Maggie to make when they were learning to tie their shoes. He wonders if he'll have the chance to teach Ally.

"Wordy?"

He glances sideways to Ed as they almost sit back-to-back on the bench. He remembers his first day at the SRU. He knew he was making a difference but he wasn't sure if his virtues would outweigh his sins. Still coming to grips with shooting someone, Ed sat in the same spot and talked with him until he had a solid grip on reality, a grip now caught in a tremor. He raises his eyebrows to Ed and Ed points at his hands.

When Wordy looks down his left hand is fine, but the right one is caught in an awful spasm, his pinky finger seems to be moving to a completely different beat than the rest of his hand. He shoots out his left hand to at first sturdy his right and then to hide it. Then looking at Ed who has seen the whole episode whispers, "I didn't get a lot of sleep."

Ed clears his throat and places a hand softly on Wordy shoulder, tapping for a minute before removing it. "It's okay, Buddy."

"Ally had that fever again so Shelley and I were up all night with her and now this thing with Lilly. And I worry about Maggie because what if she just gets lost somewhere in it all." Without thinking he brings his right hand to his mouth to rest it there, but his fingers are jumping like bacon in a frying pan.

"Take the day off," Ed suggests though Wordy knows it's more of for the good of the team than for himself. He's a liability. He literally has a trigger finger now and he's still surprised that Greg will let him near a gun. He also knows that he can't take the day off. There's going to be one hell of a storm, the city's been craving it with the intense heat and humidity and it's going to make everyone go insane. They all know something big is going to go down today.

He shakes his head, unwilling to make accusations to such a good friend. Instead—"I can still do close combat or entry if we need it. I don't have to use my gun."

"Wordy—"

"I'm not useless." It should be something he screams. It's something he feels he should be screaming to all of them because of the way they look at him, whenever he does anything. Oh, look at poor Wordy eating with a fork, I bet that's hard for him. Look at Wordy talk to Shelley on his phone I can't imagine how she feels. Look at Wordy hold Ally, should he even be allowed to do that? He's seen the questioning looks in their eyes and he's tired of it. "I was diagnosed a month ago. It's under control. Let it go."

"It's not under control if—"

"It gets worse when I don't sleep or when I'm stress—"

"Look at your job choice, Wordy." The volume of Ed's voice usurps the locker room and Wordy remains silent to hear out his friend while cradling his jittering hand. "You're just going to get more stressed every day."

"Yeah and for some odd reason everyone says they're fine with me staying on Team One, but no one treats me the same."

Ed shuffles closer, his voice now barely audible over the humming of the fluorescent lights and muffled dialogue from outside. "I know it's that bad today, but it's going to get worse. I don't want to admit it and I know you don't either. But is it really worth it to put the team or civilians in danger? What if they were Shelley or your girls?"

"I would never hurt Shelley or my girls. You know that." Just as abruptly as the tremor in his right hand started up, it dissipates and once again he's completely stable handed. He finishes lacing his shoes with ease, because that's what it is, an easy task. It's a basic motor skill that he learned from his old man on the shade of the back porch when he was four or five. He made sure to teach his girls how to tie their shoes on the back porch of their house too. Lemonade, pink shoestrings and bunny ears. "More importantly, I know that."

He doesn't wait for Ed's reply, because it's going to be something generic. Ed really hasn't been able to feel since he was shot, which is ironic in the most tragic way. Instead of accusations and heated face to face arguments that result in recriminations and maybe even a thrown fist or two and not because his movements are slipping, Wordy walks away and out of the locker room.

The perfect bows on his shoes don't teeter as he takes perfect, unfaltering steps out into the main lobby where the Boss stands talking on his cell phone to someone. He'll have to ask later to take a quick break during the day to talk to Lilly's principal.

Sending a glance over his shoulder, he sees Ed exit the locker room and head towards the workout area. Neither mentioned the fact that they both missed their hangout earlier for their daughters. It makes Wordy curious to know if Ed feels the same way about his kids that he does. Before when it was just Clark, kids seemed more like a burden, but Izzy has really brought out Ed's paternal side. Though Wordy still caught his scoff when he mentioned talking to Lilly's principal.

It leaves the question of when Izzy needs someone to stick up for her, if Ed can be that person. Wordy casts his eyes down to his right hand and finds that his right pinky is dancing again. He wonders if he'll even be around to see Ed rise to that occasion.

* * *

><p>"I checked the calendars and there is no full moon tonight." Greg sits at the head of the briefing table trying not to let all the misfortunes of the last fifteen minutes dampen his bright mood. He keeps thinking of Dean up on the stage dressed in a graduation robe, accepting a diploma and glancing out into the audience. Maybe looking for him.<p>

"So I have no idea what's going on with you guys today." Usually he would make the statement as a joke, but not today. He's spent less than a minute talking to each of the members including Jules over the phone, whose cool stoicism didn't fool him for a second. He can feel the friction radiating off each of them.

"Just Friday, Boss," Ed suggests, it might be meant as a joke, but his tone isn't offering a humorous alternative to a serious situation.

Greg shakes his head and sets his jaw. Sometimes he hates being the boss. He never hated being the boss nearly this much before Toth, but then again as boss he thought he needed some objective input and asked for Toth and got himself one foot in the grave. Unconsciously, he thinks that requesting Toth was his own way of trying to faze himself out from the SRU, maybe he'd move down to Dallas, or somewhere to be closer to Dean. He wasn't getting younger and he couldn't stay in Toronto forever. Then everyone else's problems got dragged into the situation and guilt kept him rooted in the same spot. "I think it's more than that Ed. I think that you're all dealing with some personal things."

Everyone remains silent, either waiting for him to continue on in his reproach or because none of them can think of a counterpoint that offers enough validity to negate his statement. Greg clears his throat, unsure of how to approach the sensitive topic. "I'm sure that I don't have to tell you how important it is to stay focused on the job, even though we don't have any hot calls at the moment."

He makes sure that when he talks his eyes don't linger on anyone for more than a few seconds. He doesn't want anyone to think that he's specifically speaking to them, when in all honesty, they've all been slipping lately. It's only human nature. To be told that you can be only perfect and nothing less, it's humanity at its weakest. Ed has a new baby, Spike is dealing with a terminal father, Wordy's degenerative disease and he's starting to suspect something's going on between Sam and Jules again.

"So what's the plan for today?" Sam's leaning back in his chair, arm's flexing behind his head.

Greg smiles because he knows he's going to catch them all off guard. Usually they spend days like this with target practice or in the weight room or running through drills. "We're going to go patrolling."

At the end of his sentence the room grows tense. He's unsure if it's because patrolling is irritating, or the fact that they're likely going to be stuck in pairs for the next eight hours. "We haven't done it in a while. The city still needs to know we're here, especially on a day like today."

"But if we get a hot call?" Ed questions. He's sitting across from Wordy, instead of beside him and Greg gives a second thought to pairing them up. He heard a few words of their altercation earlier in the locker room. It's hard to understand how people react to learning a teammate and a friend is sick, but Ed seems to be taking his reaction in the wrong direction.

"You can't honestly want a hot call." Wordy answers probably what they're all thinking. No one wants to talk a teenager down from a fourteenth floor ledge. No one wants have to shoot a mother in the brainstem because she's using her four-year-old son as a shield.

Greg clears his throat, abruptly ending the argument before it can escalate any further. "All right, so I figure Ed you're with me. Sam your with Spike and—" and he doesn't get to finish because by then there's a munity.

All of his team is talking over each other, arguing about the odd pairings and for a second he actually thinks about keeping them, wondering what's the worst that could happen? Then he backtracks that thought because the last fifteen minutes have been ethereal and he's the boss so he needs to hear out their cries of anguish no matter how ridiculous they are. "Okay, okay. One at a time."

"I don't think me and Sam are gonna work today," Spike says quickly. His head is facing the desk and he won't look Sam in the face.

For the first time, Greg notices that Spike took a seat diagonally across from Sam to purposefully not be near him. "Okay?"

"Why not?" Sam questions, a hint of anger in his voice. "What did I do?"

"It's nothing," Spike mumbles.

"Fine," Greg sighs and tries to reformulate the partnerships for the shift, "Sam with Ed, Spike with me and Wordy with Jules when she gets here."

"Boss, it's always me and Wordy," Ed states.

Greg's about to answer that it's about time for a change then. He and Wordy are both in a heated mood today and he doesn't need their philosophies clashing today on hot topics.

But then Wordy speaks, "Are you making me wait because of-?"

He doesn't have to finish his sentence. They all know what he's talking about. It's one of the aforementioned hot topics. Greg sighs again. He's tried to the best of his ability to not treat Wordy any different than he did before the man came to him and divulged that he had Parkinson's. It was late one night after a particularly hard shift and he just wanted to go home, but Wordy wanted to talk about something and all he remembers is both of them standing in silence in the dim light of the briefing room. "Okay. Ed with Wordy. Spike with Jules. Sam you're with me."

"But I'm always with Jules," Sam's protest is almost immediate.

"Well not today," he answers with a shrug. His answer is blunt because Sam answer is only fueling his suspicions and he does not want to be right about this. The first time Sam and Jules were involved there were no formal reprimands because Jules was so seriously injured. But they both knew what would happen this time around. It was made very clear that one of them would be transferred and that he would be demoted for not dealing with their behavior. They were both adults and with something so personal, it shouldn't be his decision to do something about it. "Let's go Sam."

* * *

><p>The elevator doors close behind her and she reaches a finger forward to press the '6', then takes a few seconds to make sure that the elevator is completely empty. When she is sure no one is hidden in the sleek faux wooden crevices she looks down. Sure, there's her ratty sneaker clad feet and legs covered by jeans that she's been wearing for three days because Sam has that kind of thrall on her.<p>

"Don't go home."

"Tonight?"

"Ever."

But those aren't the things she's really interested in. Well the belt, it's newish and she's not going to be needing it for that much longer because—no. No. It doesn't exist yet. It doesn't exist until a doctor takes her blood and tells her it exists. Because pregnancy tests are faulty. So faulty. She found that out Googling 'false positive pregnancy tests' on her phone while waiting to get around the accident on Bay and King. They could be defective or positive because of medication or positive because of too much water intake. Basically it was easier to get a positive than a negative.

The elevator doors open and when she looks out she's still on the first floor lobby. What the hell? She pushed the button. She remembered pushing the button. Leaning back inside the elevator she rams her hand into the '6' several times until the button lights up like a Christmas tree and she feels the lurch of the carriage. Modern technology lets you Google from your car but can't get you up six stories. She should've taken the stairs.

The '2' lights up and then lazily passes and this is taking too damn long. She's already too late. She knew she was going to be late when she left Sam's apartment while he was in the shower to run to the corner Shoppers. Instead of hoping that she wasn't pregnant, she was praying that she wouldn't run into Sam or Natalie before she got a chance to hide the test. Guess she should've been praying for the former.

Later she snuck the test by an overly talkative Natalie, who looked like she'd spent the majority of the night at various clubs, by putting it in the garbage, smuggling it like narcotics over the border and then throwing out the trash. Jules was not a sentimental woman. She was not going to cherish a stick she peed on, especially a faulty one. Especially one that could be used as incriminating evidence if Sam or God help her, Natalie found it.

Now she's formulating an escape plan. Jules knows that she's going to use the car accident as a scapegoat. She also knows that Sam's going to pull her aside later on with a large warm hand under her bicep and that lopsided grin. He'll state that he warned her about that accident. She will say he didn't warn her early enough and get a fake angry at him that he thinks is real. She wonders if he ever gets tired of her getting angry at him. Half of the time, her heart isn't even in it. Half of the time he's part of the escape plan.

He's the reason she was able to get a lunchtime appointment at her doctor's office on Monday. However, he's also the cause of her having to go to the appointment so she's not feeling overly gracious at the moment. It's these mixed feelings that make her hesitant to share the test and the appointment with him. She also refuses to acknowledge the possibility of a baby yet. But she's curious to know how he would react. The fact that she doesn't know doesn't bode well for this situation.

But she remembers what happened after she was shot. When she woke up, Sam was the first person she saw. He was perched on the side of her bed, his hand mingled in with all the tubes and wires and he said something to her that she can't recall but she's sure it was sweet. He walked at her pace around the hospital which was hard for him since his legs are already twice as long as hers. He visited her everyday and when she was released, he stayed with her at her place because she wasn't ready for that 'plant' type of commitment.

She remembers that she was the one who let him go and it was almost as painful as getting shot. Having to see the hurt look on his face every day, especially when she tried to move on, it wasn't fair to either of them. Then she was back at his apartment one Toth interview later and it was like nothing changed. When she glances back down her hand is inadvertently resting on her stomach.

The light flashes from the '5' to the '6' and she starts to get antsy. Tearing her hand away, she stands first soldier ridged, then tries to fold her arms over her chest. Nothing seems to work. She's forgotten where her arms go. The team is definitely going to know something's up. She's never late. She's the person who hassles the late people. What if she gets off the elevator they all look at her and just know? They all know her better than any five people on the planet after all.

The doors slide open and Sam is less than a foot away, apparently waiting for the elevator. He lets out an angry grunt and slams his hand into the down button again, having not heard the machine's muted ding. His lips pull into a grimace and shuffling in a lazy circle but when she steps out and he notices her and his mouth works into that familiar smile. "There you are."

He reaches out a hand, but cancels the action halfway and holds his arms by his side instead. She smiles because he doesn't know where to put his arms either. "I was starting to get worried."

"Well there's a big accident on Bay and King." She tries to boil the anger into her voice and blame this all on him. It a defense mechanism, this way she can keep him in the dark about the life that may or may not be growing inside of her right now. But when she looks at him he's so relieved to see her safe, the false anger diffuses.

"You got through it okay?"

"Yeah." She nods and remembers the dozens of texts he sent her warning her not to go down Bay and King. Sometimes she purposefully doesn't listen to him just to get some reaction out of him that isn't concern. Sam's head might explode with worry if she's pregnant. She wonders how long she could pull off pregnant without tipping anyone off. How long could she pull it off without Sam knowing?

He breathes harshly through his nose and his smile evaporates a little. "We're doing patrolling today. I'm with the Sarge, you're with Spike."

"Oh?" That's a little weird but she really doesn't care. Patrolling is patrolling, it's mediocre fun no matter what.

"Yeah there was this big uprising. Spike didn't want to be with me, but I fought for you. It was like 'Pick on Sam Day'."

"Every day is Pick on Sam Day."

The elevator doors whoosh open and Sam rolls his eyes at her. "Thanks for that," he mutters as he turns away.

Before he gets into the elevator she grabs one of his large hands in both of hers to stop him. "Hey."

"Jules." With surprise, he looks down at their hands touching, then back into her eyes and knows that something's amiss. "What's wrong?"

"Nothing." She drops his hand, having held it for five seconds will have to last the next eight hours. She knows that he feels the same way because his smile is back. "Can we talk later?"

"The last time you said that we ended up in that coffee shop."

"No coffee shops I promise."

He scans her face for a few seconds longer for any signs of what's bothering her, his blue eyes unwavering. With hesitation he answers, "Yeah. Okay. I gotta go. Sarge is waiting."

She watches Sam step into the elevator and waves goodbye as the doors shut away his face. The numbers begins to light up in descending order and she wonders what exactly she's going to do if she is pregnant. They're definitely not ready for a baby; she's not ready for a baby. Hell, she's barely ready to be in a concrete relationship, but she does love Sam and maybe that's all they need.

"Hey," Spike greets from behind her. He's a little paler this morning, the bags under his eyes a little darker and his face looks a little more weathered than usual.

"Morning Spike." She wonders how things are going with his parents and if he has anyone to talk to about it now that Lew's gone.

He stands level with her and copies her position by crossing his arms. Something her that still makes her arms feel unnatural. After a few moments he questions, "Why does Sam get to use the elevator?"

* * *

><p><em>Congratulations you just made it through 26 pages of Flashpoint Fanfiction!<em>

_Next chapter up next weekend.  
><em>

_PS - I took the liberty of naming Wordy's middle daughter Maggie and Spike's sister Carmen.  
><em>


	3. Imperfection

_A/N: Hey Guys. Sorry the update is a little late this week. Let's just say that I've been doing double over time (16 hour shifts) and that this chapter is effing huge (45 pages!). I also managed to get my freaking license only a billion years late. So yay me! Also a few errors were brought to my attention last week. One was that Sam was in Afghanistan not Iraq (TinkerPanda-you get honorable mention for that). More importantly was that there were some spelling and grammatical errors. I have no beta reader so I finish writing a chapter and read over it three times before posting it. In the case of last chapter (26 pages and this one 45 PAGES) that's a lot of freaking pages not to have one mistake. Lucky for me I'm not on probation ee hee hee. Anyways I spent seven hours going over this beast because I wanted to get it perfect. So if there are minor imperfections. Give me a mullagan. And I'm sorry if it's not exactly canonical, there's so many things that confuse me about this show (because being an English major I know nothing about being a cop) and there's no where I can go to reference it or ask questions (unless someone want to name drop some sites). Now that I think I've covered most of my butt, onto the normal things. This is a lot like the last episode again, because I think that the writers have secretly broken into my computer. If they start having poor grammar too, then we know it. So everyone just act surprised. And of course thank you for the reviews/favorites. I'll make you guys a deal and stop apologizing for the long A/Ns if you stop apologizing for the long reviews. Remember I love to hear your favorite parts, and I've also connected all three chapters with a specific reference, they'll be more too. So if you can find them. Good on you. Now onto the Flashpoint Novella._

**Oh before you read remember to ignore the invention of airbags because I sure did!**

Domino Theory

Chapter 3

Imperfection

It's seven forty-five in the morning and the sky is still as black as if it was five. The streetlights dimly flash by as they drive down Don Mills Road. The rig, like SRU lobby earlier, is eerily silent. Neither Sam or the Boss have uttered a word that doesn't have to do with patrolling since they got into the truck and he's starting to feel uncomfortable.

The clouds roll together in the full sky. It reminds him of being kid on an army base. Of the General and his buddies smoking stogies until the kitchen and everything his mom cooked smelt like a forest fire. He wishes it would just hurry up and rain. He's constantly waiting for things. Waiting for the Boss to say something, probably about how he shouldn't be on his phone so much. Sorry, but when his angry-then-happy-now girlfriend is going to plow straight into a four-car-pileup, he's going to try to stop her.

What's up with Jules today? He's come to expect that she'll get angry with him at least once a day. Through cautiously testing troubled waters he's figured out that she's actually angry only half the time. Usually it's for reasons unknown to him. She's something that growing up in a house with three other women still hasn't helped him to understand.

Jules has never physically touched him at HQ before. Well, never in such a public place before. He grins because maybe they are in this as equals. He thought he was the one who couldn't resist her, but apparently the feeling is mutual.

Then he remembers that she wants to talk later and he knows that can't end well. He knows that her tone suggests that it's about them and that her actions suggest it's drastic. He's afraid of feeling empty inside all over again. More than anything he wants to define their relationship further, but if that means ending it, he'll avoid that conversation forever.

"Sam?" Sarge finally speaks. His voice is hoarse from remaining silent for so long. The Boss starts to drive towards Eglinton Ave and the act makes Sam grouchy.

If he were with Jules, they could be talking right now. If he were with Jules, they could make a Timmy's stop because he didn't have time for one this morning. Plus if she doesn't have a coffee, she's going to start getting grumpy by eight. Boy, Spike is not going to be prepared for that eruption. Most importantly, he could be driving, because Jules knows that he likes to drive. He loves it in fact. As the oldest of the Braddock clan he got his license the day he turned sixteen, then promptly took the General's car for the weekend, came back and well, getting the beating of the lifetime doesn't put it lightly.

"Yeah Boss?" He wants to cross his arms in a huff and protest everything that's happened this morning, but instead he waits for further orders. He feels juvenile and stuck, just like he did back home. Just like he does every time he goes to visit and sees the General's glare and his mother's welcoming sobs while she hugs him until he suffocates. His mom wants to know why he can't find a job closer to home and a nice girl to settle down with. The General still thinks that the friendly fire wasn't so friendly.

It's disturbing to think about. The General's only son goes off to do two tours in Afghanistan and on his return the only thing the General can talk about is how his son was honorably discharged. That's exactly what happened last night.

The General called his apartment to chide Natalie, who his old man kicked out almost six months earlier. That was the personal reason she was staying with her doormat of a big brother, Sam. The Braddock siblings may not be the tightest knit group, but he has two baby sisters and an emotionally abusive father, so he stepped in and helped when she showed up at his door trembling and crying.

Sam was on a search and retrieve mission for his car keys when Natalie chucked the phone at him and demanded, "You talk to him." She grabbed her overnight bag and left to go out clubbing and stay with a friend. It was a part of the conditions of her living with him. That he needed to have at least two nights a week with the apartment to himself. However, she didn't speak another word before she slammed his front door so hard he knew the neighbors would complain. Well if they didn't complain last week about him and Jules-

The General screamed at him over the phone for a minute. Yelled about how Natalie would end up like Anna, the middle and forgotten Braddock, if she didn't leave the nest on her own two feet. Sam laughed maliciously at his old man, and told him he didn't know what was good for his own children which only proved to piss off his dad more.

Over the General's shouts he heard his mom pleading in the background for them to stop. It took less than three minutes until the incident of friendly fire and his dad's disappointment in his only son bubbled to the surface again. Sam hung up on him and threw the phone at the wall.

He sat on the side on his bed, his head in his hands and his legs shaking from the pure adrenaline of dealing with the asshole he was dealt as a father. That was when he heard the bathroom door click open and Jules pad barefoot across the living room.

"I thought you were going to pick up the pizza?" She leaned in the doorway with crossed legs clad in the cropped sweat pants she knew he loved. They're so soft and under any other condition he'd already be touching them. She wore one of his t-shirts that reminded him she would probably be leaving the apartment sometime this week to do laundry or to get more clothes. It was probably a good thing considering what happened the last time they actually went to her place.

She used the blue and white striped towel they agreed was strictly only his to dry off her wet hair. When he didn't answer her, she entered the room and noticed the remains of his portable phone lying on the ground. "What happened?"

He exhaled loudly through his nose. With Natalie gone, the apartment hit a new level of silence. "I talked to the General."

"Oh." She didn't say anything else, because they both get in the same mindset after dealing with their parents. It's a vortex they can't escape from because it sucks them back in every holiday. They have jobs with merit that make the day worthwhile. They have a semblance of a well rounded life, but it's never enough. Their parents are never impressed or proud and it makes him cherish Jules more because all she has to say is 'oh' and she knows exactly what kind of mental and emotional anguish he's dealing with.

She sat on the bed next to him, folded her legs underneath her, and wrestled one of his hands free to hold in hers. "You're nothing like what he thinks you're like."

Sam didn't answer her; instead he focused on the cracked baseboards and the dust bunny collection in the corner of the bedroom. Maybe if Jules goes home this weekend he'll clean. Her smooth fingertips circled over his knuckles and he's not worried about cleaning or even what his dad implied earlier, it's something more than that. Jules sensed it too.

"Sam?"

He turned his head towards her and tried to keep his voice even. "What if I'm exactly like him?"

She smiled warmly, and still held his hand, but let it rest against the fuzzy material that covered her thigh to calm him. "Sam, you're nothing like him."

"No, I mean—" He stopped and thought about his words, how they might scare her off.

She tugged his hand once. "Tell me."

He sighed and glanced into her dark eyes for a moment before he decided that he might as well continue on. They'd come this far together. "What if I'm the exact same kind of father he is?"

She smiled again, this time brighter even, it reached her eyes and she looked beautiful. She wrapped her arms around him sideways and rested her head against his shoulder while she spoke, "People who have parents like ours learn to be good parents by doing the opposite of what theirs did."

"So you're saying?"

She kissed him and he smiled. She smelled like that shampoo that's in the corner of his shower. Shampoo he's glad to see every morning when he gets up. Shampoo that he adds to the grocery list every other week because it means keeping Jules closer than an adjacent locker room at HQ.

"What I'm saying Sam, is you're going to make a great father." They stared at each other and Sam wondered if this could count as a discussion about the future of their relationship, as abstract as it was.

Then Jules pushed him hard in the chest with her palm, the force of it made him recoil on the bed. "Would you go get the pizza? I'm starving."

Greg exhales as they take a last minute right turn and remain Flemingdon Park. It's an okay part of the city to patrol. There are bridges over the Don River which could have potential jumpers, railroad tracks that could have potential stall-ers, and all around suspicious activity. Then again at seven forty-five in the morning the most activity belongs to seniors. "You and Jules."

Sam raises an eyebrow and tries not to notice his heart rate accelerating. All of his tactical and negotiating experience floods through his head at once and he has all the schematics to talking himself out of a dangerous situation. Only, what do you do when the guy who wrote the book that taught you everything you know, is the one putting you in that position? As quickly as he remembers all of his training he loses it. Instead he falls back on what he did with the General and his mom when they found out he smashed the car, or drank seven beers, or locked Natalie or Anna in the coat closet for two and a half hours; he plays dumb. "What about me and Jules?"

"Sam, come on." Greg shakes his head and his lips pull into a tight almost-smile at Sam's technique. He reaches a hand forward and checks the switches on the walkies hanging on the middle of the dashboard console to make sure they're off. He does the same with his comm. link and doesn't continue to speak until Sam has shut his off. "You must remember that I did raise a son for eight years."

"Yeah I just don't know what the hell—"

"How long have you and Jules been back together?" Greg's hands remain tight on the steering wheel as they slow down to an acceptable speed while passing by low rental houses. Some with broken chain link fences, some with plywood over windows.

Sam shakes his head. "We're not back together Sarge."

Greg grinds his teeth a little and nods his head a little slower, clearly growing irritated by Sam's denial. "I can see the signs."

"Like what?" He questions with a little too much confidence.

"You were a little upset that you weren't partnered with her today."

"No, I was upset that everyone else got what they wanted and I didn't." He lies through his teeth. He wonders how he's so good at lying when he never does it. It's not part of the job description and it's not in his character either. He never really lied to his parents, never had a reason too. He wonders where the instinct comes from, but he knows it's to protect her.

"And I noticed you were late coming down from HQ while I was getting the rig." Greg states the sentence like he should know what it means. He realizes that the boss is trying to catch him in his own web of lies and he starts paying hyper attention.

"So?"

"So, this just happens to be after Jules shows up?"

"Boss." He shakes his head and laughs like this idea is absurd. "You're jumping to some huge conclusions here."

"Yeah." Greg shrugs, laughs a little like their all buddy-buddy, like maybe he was wrong about it. But Sam's been through this inquisition once before and he knows that this is nowhere near over. He knows this whole patrol was a cover-up for a detailed questioning but what Greg wasn't prepared for was the depths he would go to protect what he has with Jules. "Jules was late today because of an accident on Bay and King."

"Is that so?"

"Yeah. Now tell me Sam, why would she be by Bay and King so early in the morning when her apartment is on the other side of town?"

His heart doesn't accelerate anymore. It stops. It flat out stops in his chest and at no time in his life has he ever felt like this. Even in Afghanistan there was a sense of adventure, a sense of patriotism, doing what was right. Here he's trapped again. He knows it, Sarge knows it and by the end of the day, Jules will know it. "I—"

"Damn it Sam, you two had one stipulation to follow in order to keep probation." Greg curbs the rig and covers his eyes with one hand while leaning against the steering wheel. "So far everyone has managed to perfect Sam. Spike and Wordy have been perfect and they're dealing with personal issues. Ed has been perfect while recovering from being shot and with a newborn daughter. Are you telling me that you and Jules—"

"I haven't admitted to anything yet." He's trying so hard to keep his cool. Sarge is his boss, and he respects him, but there's only so much he can take before he cracks. Aside from his job, Jules is the one thing in life that truly makes him happy and proud. He's tired of his family and now Sarge ripping apart what they have.

"No." Greg shakes his head and turns to him. Sam can see how tired his boss really is, even in the dim streetlight their parked under. "You haven't admitted to anything. This is good because right now, theoretically I don't know anything and it's not in the transcripts."

"So?"

"So I'm giving you a chance here Sam. I'm giving you both a chance."

Is Sarge telling him to do what he thinks he is? Not again. Not this time. He's part of the SRU, he's a superior sniper, he's almost perfect. If that imperfection is Jules, he doesn't want to be perfect. He's not choosing. He's not forcing that on himself, or her. If the higher ups have a problem with this, they can deal with it themselves. He swallows hard, and shakes his head. "Not this time Sarge."

"I'm not saying you two need to end it."

Sam leans back and stares out the window at the clouds that have the sky blanketed. He's not hopeful, he knows what the Sarge is going to say already and later on he's going to have to sit down with Jules and talk to her about it. They're going to get upset. She's going to leave and it might be over once again. He doesn't think he can handle coming into work and seeing her and knowing that he can't kiss her again. At least now he knows he only has to wait eight hours.

"She won't even talk about switching teams." There's a lot she won't talk about.

"Well I'm giving you a week." Sam wrenches his head around and stares at his boss. At the sudden streak of strictness that was never evident before. "I'm telling you to make a decision by next Friday. Or I will for you."

* * *

><p>Well this is awkward. No, that's an understatement. Awkward was his mom phoning his first girlfriend to tell her that he's a nice, sensible boy and that he has a great future ahead of him and he doesn't want to be tied down yet. Awkward was that it was in the seventh grade. Awkward is that his mom is still doing his laundry twenty-odd years later and that when she finds the odd girl's phone number that he gets once every two years, she pretty much throws it out. Worse is when he forgets to take his wallet out of his pants and she finds what he's left in there. At least he's playing safe.<p>

But sitting in the endless silence of the car with Jules, while he's still recovering from barely escaping from the icy glare and stone cold death grip of Sam is a little more than mom-moving-in-on-his-business awkward. Maybe he's just used to that. Please Lord; don't let him be used to that. He might as well go full Norman Bates now.

He dislikes patrolling as much as the next Team One officer. Maybe even more. It reminds him of Lew. Of time spent goofing off with Lew down by the beach in the summer. Girls in bikinis by Lake Ontario. Their final hurrah in Ocho Rios. Of Ginger beer in the ocean. If he knew what was going to happen the day they got back—

Happy thoughts Spike. Happy thoughts. _Everything's going to be okay_. He didn't believe it then, he sure as hell doesn't believe it now. Nothing like seeing your best buddy in the world get firecrackered by a bounding mine. He doesn't remember much after that happened. He remembers screaming, but not stopping. He doesn't remember who drove him back to HQ. Who had enough clarity to drive?

The funeral wasn't much better. It was the day after his father basically disowned him for having a lifesaving profession. He wonders if there is any profession that could make him disown his own child. Even selling illegal drugs wouldn't do it. It's a cry for help, not for abandonment. His mother ironed out his good slacks that day.

The team sat together but scattered among Lew's friends. Lew's parents sat in the front pew with family Spike met less than a week ago under much happier circumstances. Wordy and Ed brought their wives, Sam brought his army attitude and declared later on that he'd been to too many of these things. They got into a mild scuffle. Mild because the Boss broke it up at HQ and Sam huffed and puffed away but was fine the next day. Jules didn't say a word for the whole service, or the reception. She kind of collapsed in on herself like a dying star.

The entire time he was still screaming. There was no need to get a casket because there was nothing to bury, there wasn't even anything recognizable of the friend he phoned up when they both had to work late to apologize. He started going to therapy, it was the Boss's idea. Just go for a week Spike, it might help out. It didn't take. Talking to a complete stranger about your problems doesn't work when you can't talk to your own parents about them.

"People die Michelangelo." His mom spooned out an extra large portion of lasagna because he looked thin. Because he wasn't eating all that much. Because pieces of his best friend were still being cleaned out from between the bricks of that building because some delusional manic planted landmines in downtown Toronto.

"People die," she repeated with a smile that reached her appled-cheeks as she set the pan back onto the kitchen island. "But there's no pain because the Lord. He takes them. That should offer you peace."

Spike stood from the table placing his napkin down beside the homemade lasagna that he hadn't touched. It churned his stomach. He didn't even look at it. While he left the room he muttered, "Remember that when dad dies."

It's a definite low point in his life. Later he will go back to his mom, and take the scouring pad from her wet, calloused hands and give her a kiss on the top of the head. He'll tell her to go sit down for a little while because she deserves it. She'll wipe her hands on her patchwork apron and tap his cheek two times and tell him he's a good boy and that she loves him. He's not the best son in the world, but he's nothing to be overly ashamed of.

His parents didn't go to Lew's funeral. He gets why his dad didn't go, but usually his mom would be all for supporting him. He wonders vaguely if it's because it wasn't a catholic funeral. Lew's parents were there. Mr and Mrs. Young sans a son. Without even a coffin to bury him in. It's got that Victorian nursery rhyme level of morbidity.

He approached Lew's mom at the service, she was not done crying, but she had stopped and was in a lost state. The tears ceased because she was too tired to keep on crying or because the experience of attending her son's funeral was so surreal that she fell into a dreamlike state. Either way she's sat by herself in a Queen Anne chair situated by the door ignoring people as they filtered in and out of the room.

"Marion?"

Her dark bloodshot eyes drifted up from the horrible paisley carpets that looked like they might belong in his house and she smiled at him. "Spike, how are you?"

"I'm. I'm—" Horrible. Absolutely lost. I keep trying to call Lew but his phone; you know, blew up with him. I haven't been able to eat in the last three days. Most of all, I'm full of guilt because I'm the fucking bomb expert and if I was better at my job, I would've been on that mine, not Lew. "I'm dealing."

"That's good to hear Sweetheart." Her voice was frail and her face appeared to be made up of a thousand jigsaw pieces. At any second one piece could unhinge and she'd collapse.

"Marion. I need to apologize."

She tilted her head to the side and arched her eyebrows. "What did you do now?"

He felt a twitchy grin as it pulled at his lips and he took a knee next to the chair so that he was level to her and could speak to her with ease. "I should've been there that day, but I was struggling with another bomb and—"

She waved her hand in front of his face to silence him. "Hush Spike."

"But this is my fault."

"This is not your fault." Her cold hand tapped his fingers that dug an iron grip into the arm of the chair. "Lew knew what the risks of his job were. He was stubborn as an ox. You couldn't talk that boy down from anything."

Spike chuckled and a tear escaped from his left eye, rolled down his cheek and landed on the paisley carpet. "That's true."

"So don't you bother anymore with this guilt. Lew wouldn't have wanted it."

That was the last time he saw Lew's mom. He wonders how she and his dad are from time to time. Lew was an only child. An only child is like placing all your bets for the future on one number on the roulette wheel; it's a bit of a gamble. Maybe that's why his parents keep pressuring poor Carmen to have another baby.

"Spike?" Jules finally speaks. It's the first spoken word in the car other than the garbled exchanges over the comm. links. "I'm all for uncomfortable silences, but I missed breakfast this morning and if I don't get Timmy's soon I'm going to rip the roof off this car."

"Fair enough."

They're in the area surrounding The Junction, it's a little rundown part of Toronto that's starting to get rebuilt by corporations. He remembers reading in the paper a few weeks ago about properties being sold for new office buildings and plans for new high-rises. There have been some squabbles about the heritage of the area and a good majority of the people would rather keep the decrepit looking building than have monstrous skyscrapers placed in their backyard. He guesses this is why the Boss chose it as a hotspot.

When they pull into the Timmy's the lineup is insane because it's ten to eight in the morning and they've hit the pre-work rush. Glancing over at Jules, she looks like she might have a total emotional breakdown. He's honestly never seen her all glassy-eyed or portray any emotion that wasn't anger before. Then he remembers she was late for work this morning and he considers that something personal might have happened.

Instead he pulls into the first vacant space and turns off the engine. "I don't mind running in. My legs can use the stretch anyway."

"Spike you're awesome." She smiles, and hands him a ten dollar bill. "My treat."

"Great. Cream no sugar, right?" He hopes no sugar. If she's this eager to receive a morning coffee he does not want to see her hyperactive. He's kinda glad he can't take the elevator now.

"Yeah, but can you make it decaf? I'm kind of on a health kick right now."

He nods, pocketing the bill and walking into the Tim Horton's with an actual sigh of relief. He wonders when Jules started acting this way over morning coffee. If she gets like this when she misses one, or if he's just been missing it for the past six years.

So he stands in line. And waits. And waits. And waits. His mind drifts back to Natalie and for the first time he actually has a moment to savor how amazing last night really was. There's no doubt that Natalie is pretty. Like a gorgeous kind of pretty that he's surprised would even give him the time of day. At first he thought it was because Sam was her brother and she was trying to piss him off, but she's actually really smart and funny.

Plus she doesn't care that he's still living with his parents which is a huge bonus for him. Now if he can move past his fear of being beaten by Sam, then they might actually have a chance at a relationship. In all honesty, he's having a hard time believing that they're full siblings. Part of him thinks there was a little infidelity in the Braddock clan, because there's no way Natalie can be that good looking and Sam can be, well Sam.

He gets his coffee, Jules' decaf, and puts her change in his back pocket to make sure that he doesn't drop the tray on the way back to the car, because that would just be the fumble of the year. Jules might beat him to death with the roof of the car before Sam gets a chance.

Outside, the clouds hang dangerously low in the sky, like they might fall down at any minute and it gives Toronto the impression of being trapped under a snow globe. It's making all the drivers go extra fast and all the people extra cranky. Just what you want when you're on patrol.

"Here you go." He hands Jules the tray while he reaches into his back pocket to retrieve her change. There's a low rumble that might be mistaken for either thunder or nearby construction, maybe even an eighteen wheeler driving over a particularly bumpy road, so the sound doesn't daunt him.

"And here you go." He gives her the handful of change and adds, "They were out of dollars."

If Jules cares, she doesn't show it. She seems satiated by the coffee that she's holding between two hands like it's a mug of cocoa and she's in Aspen. She tosses her change in the extra cup holder in the middle section on between the two seats.

The drive around The Junction is patterned with silence accompanied by coffee cup slurps and pleasant small talk. Deep booms resonate from the neighborhood and Spike thinks that at any moment the sky is going to open up and it's going to be like Wild Water Kingdom in the GTA.

"Do you ever miss Lew?" She asks suddenly, her voice is sullen with deep thought and when he glances over she's looking out the windows at the passing houses.

"Yeah." It's all he can manage. Of course he misses Lew. When Lew died it was like they amputated a limb from him. It was like they gave him a lobotomy and took away the part of his brain that allows him to relax and have fun. Even when he was with Natalie, he still wasn't one hundred percent there.

Jules starts to laugh, her fingers strumming against the half-empty cardboard coffee cup. "Remember when Sam first started and you and Lew took his clothes from his locker and—"

"Can we please not talk about Lew?" His voice is surprisingly steady as are his hands on the wheel and he thinks that good ol' Dr. Toth would be proud of him.

"Sure." She's quick to agree and starts playing with the change in the cup holder. "I'm just saying that it was good."

He doesn't respond, only continues to drive around the residential areas until they all start to blend in to each other. He decides to take a left where he should be taking a right and ends up on the out skirts of The Junction and West Bend where a corporate building is under construction. It's little more than three or four stories of girders. He knows a few blocks North is the public school his nephew used to attend.

"Hey." Jules removes something from the cup holder and when he looks over she's got Natalie's earring between her thumb and forefinger like Sam did. "Why is there an earring in here?"

Shit. Shit. Shit. Is everyone at the SRU honestly going to see that freaking earring today? He contemplates if psychologically he's doing it on purpose, if it's not one of those Freudian slips he's heard so much about. He's finally getting some, everyone should know. Hell when Sam gets some the whole freaking building gets the memo.

"Oh, that's—" He stops the car at an abandoned stop sign in front of the construction site and reaches over to take it from her, but she's had her coffee and her reflexes are agile. "It's nothing Jules."

"Is this yours Spike?" Her voice has a hint of amusement and she twirls the earring just like Sam. It glistens softly in the weak light.

"It may belong to a lady friend of mine, yes."

Before Jules' answers a red Dodge Ram races out of the construction parking lot, and shoots over the curb. The tires are massive and it bounces onto the road, swerving once right, then left before gaining control and speeding away.

Spike taps his comm. link. "ANVR 381?"

"That's what I got," Jules confirms and pockets Natalie's earring.

"Boss, this is Spike."

"Go ahead Spike." Greg's voice comes in over the comm. link. His voice sounds tense, like they've interrupted something important.

"We've got a red Dodge Ram with plates Alpha, November, Victor, Romeo 381 speeding out of the Conservable Insurance building site on Keele going North."

"Okay, I'll get Winnie to run a check on the car."

"Jules and I are going to check out the building."

"All right, let me know what you find." Then the link falls dead.

"What do you think?" Jules questions as they get ready to check out the construction site that's dangerously deserted for eight in the morning on a weekday. "Drugs?"

"Could be." He reaches for the door handle, but pauses and adds, "Might not hurt to have the drug squad on call."

She nods and turns her attention back to the forgotten piece of jewelry while he makes the call. "Hey, you know who has an earring like that? Sam's sist—"

Across the street, the future site of Conservable Insurance's newest building explodes. In the same second that the construction site detonates a shock wave plows over the street flipping their rig onto its side.

* * *

><p>"When is this rain going to happen?" Ed leans forward in the seat to look at the sky while stopped at an intersection. Nothing about today feels right, from the time his alarm went off at five in the morning and he woke to find that Sophie wasn't asleep in bed beside him.<p>

"It'll happen when it happens." Wordy's response clear, casual and without a shred of forethought. Though it sounds like a phrase that should sneak out with a yawn, it's not; it's what his friend really means.

Ed laughs heartily because it's such a classic Wordy answer. There is a preset time for everything. You can't change things. You can't force them.

Ally, Wordy's youngest daughter was born a little over a month early and had to spend almost that long in the hospital. Ed remembers the condition his friend was in when he first saw him on the sterile neonatal level of St. Simon's.

He was the first of Team One to arrive, the first one to see Wordy and he barely even recognized his friend. The tall, lean man reduced to emotional rubble as he crouched next to the incubator containing his newborn daughter. Ed didn't know what to say, he'd never been in this situation before. He wasn't around for Clark's quick and healthy birth. Sophie had carried him right to term, and delivered him three days overdue.

"They won't let me hold her." The pads of Wordy's fingers burned into the glass of the incubator. Both men watched as the tiny chest inside rose and fell at hummingbird speed.

"She's going to be fine." Ed clapped a hand onto his friend's shoulder and for a minute there was only the constant beeping of the monitors. Neon numbers on a dark screen that changed sporadically with each distinct ping of the baby's heartbeat.

"The thing is." Wordy bowed his head as he tried to think of the right way to explain what he was thinking. He stared at his daughter, surrounded by wires, machines and glass like an exhibit in a modern art museum. "I don't know who I'm supposed to be with."

Ed nods solemnly because it's a hard choice. Wordy has a wife he loves, who's just given birth to a premature daughter she didn't get to hold. He has two older daughters at home who are missing both of their parents and now he has a tiny daughter who is being swallowed by her diaper and cap.

Three years later Ed would be in the same position of choosing family members. He'd like to think that he keeps a clear mind. Not Wordy crystal clear of conscience and previous grievances, but he tries to the best of his ability to treat each member of his family with equal shares of his time, love and patience.

The thing is they're not equal. Izzy needs more attention than Clark. Sophie needs more attention than Clark. But he doesn't want Clark to come to resent him or Soph for ignoring him in his final year of school. These are important times in Clark's life too; he needs to decide what he wants to do with his future. He doesn't want his son to make any mistakes that he regrets.

Maybe to do that he does need to be at home more. He doesn't need to be Team Leader right now, maybe it was better off with Sam taking over the position even if it is just for the year. Things were working out better that way; he had more time to spend with Izzy and Clark. He had time to discuss the new business with Sophie. He had time to work out, have a morning cup of coffee and adjust the van mirrors before he left. Maybe after work he'll talk to Greg about taking a backseat in the team dynamics again.

Pulling away from the intersection, Ed takes a right from Weston onto Jane. He and Wordy are patrolling the general area around Jane and Finch as it's a high crime area, mostly drug deals. He's hoping something hot goes down soon. If not, they're only scheduled to be here until nine when Wordy is cleared to stop off at Lilly's school. It's something he can see Wordy doing often; walking into a public school, hoisting Lilly up in his arms and telling the other kid to back off. Hell, he'll probably stop off at Maggie's kindergarten class just for a hug. The closest Ed has ever came to visiting Clark at school was dropping him off one time when Sophie had the flu.

"You know, Clark had a meltdown this morning because I won't take him out to practice driving."

"He's going for his license already? It seems like yesterday you were just getting him off of training wheels."

Ed smiles because he has fond memories of backyard shenanigans with his son. Clark could always be found bursting around the concrete patio on his Big Wheel. Ed chided that his son needed to slow down or he was going to take someone out, the kid could pedal so fast for a toddler. Now when he gets in the van with him, he screams at his son anytime the speedometer travels over sixty. He just doesn't want to receive a call one day that his van has t-boned into the side of the Eaton's center with Clark inside.

"Yeah, well." Ed shakes his head and slows down to get a better look into areas where they've taken down drug dealers before. With all the stress in his personal life and missing his work out this morning he hopes the entire day isn't all just driving around in the rig. "I think he's still getting used to being a big brother because he stormed out of the house. I think he just wants to get out of there now"

There's a long pause and Ed thinks that maybe Wordy doesn't know how to react. That maybe he's thinking of his own mortality, about how he'll never have the chance to teach his own girls how to drive. Part of Ed feels guilty for bringing up the subject and the other part checks out his friend to make sure he's not sagging in his seat or showing any further signs of tremors.

A conversation between Greg and Spike on the comm. link breaks the silence and Spike talks about Keele St., drugs and a red Dodge Ram. "Ed, Wordy, you copy?"

"Got it, Boss. If they need back up, we're only a few minutes away."

"Maybe Clark wants his license to help out." Wordy finally answers. Ed doesn't know if he was too afraid to suggest the idea or if the reply was postponed for neurological reasons. The thing about being friends for so long and then having Parkinson's spring out, is Ed doesn't know what mental or emotional aspects of Wordy characterizes the disease, so the cop in him attributes all of them to the disease. Almost nothing is left of Wordy.

"How would—" Through the motionless, early morning air a brief flash of light occurs with the echo of a dull boom. Ed and Wordy share a familiar glance, one of fear and concern. There's a few seconds of radio silence followed by Greg's voice demanding everyone to check in.

"Ed here."

"Wordy here."

Voices almost simultaneous with dread as Ed pulls the rig into a u-turn and throws on the sirens because one rig is unaccounted for. He wants to know what's going on, but he doesn't want to use up the channel in case Jules or Spike answers.

"Spike. Jules. Talk to me."

Nothing.

"Jules. Spike." Sam's voice sounds more desperate than the Boss's.

Nothing.

"Boss," Ed finally interjects because he needs to know what to do. "Wordy and I are a few minutes away. What was their last position on Keele Street?"

Greg answers him but he doesn't hear it, because before he turns onto Keele, a red Dodge Ram speeds by. The same one that he saw on his way to drop Izzy off at Sophie's parents this morning. The truck is riding low on the back left side, having popped a tire and he knows that they can catch it. "Did Spike say he saw a red Dodge Ram speed out of the parking lot?"

A syllable of confirmation hasn't left Greg's mouth before Ed is pursuing the vehicle. Siren's blazing and his boot pressing the gas pedal so hard he's wondering why he can't feel pavement pebbling underneath his feet.

Word's face contorts into a mixture of confusion and aversion. "Ed, what about—"

"Boss, license plate is ANVR 318. It's the suspect. We're in pursuit."

"Copy that Ed. Sam and I are on our way down to Keele."

"Jules and Spike could be seriously hurt." Sam argues over the comm. link.

Ed wants to roll his eyes. That kid still has streaks of being the rookie. "Sam, if we don't get this guy now, odds is there's going to be more bombs."

"Yeah and who's going to defuse them if Spike's unconscious?"

Ed covers his comm. link with a gloved hand and turns to Wordy, "I swear sometimes I worry about you guys because you chose him to replace me."

"I'm with him Ed."

"Et tu, Brute?"

"Two of our teammates—two of our friends could be seriously hurt. We were closest to the scene. We could've been first to respond, but because you wanted action, we went after the bad guy."

He groans. Wordy the bleeding heart. If it was up to him they would've lost Spike and Lew on the same day. He has the natural quality of only seeing the good in people which tends to blind him more than aid him. "We go after the bad guy because that's our job."

A pained groan comes over the comm. link that stops their bickering. There's static that sounds like shuffling or movement across the speaker and then there's silence.

"Jules. Spike. Guys speak to me." Greg's voice stern and Ed can tell that he's in panic mode. If he wasn't in a car, he'd be pacing a ditch into the ground.

"I'm here." Spike answers. His ragged breathes are punctuated by groans into the speaker. "I'm here."

"Okay Spike. Okay. Are you okay?"

"I'm sideways."

* * *

><p>"You're sideways?"<p>

There's a brief pause in the communication before Spike's voice booms again. No one complains about it. They all know it's a side effect from being in such a close proximity to the building when the bomb went off. Almost like being in the front row of a heavy metal concert every day for a week, the explosion has likely perforated Spike's eardrum making it very hard for him to hear his own voice, let alone what people are saying to him. Something confirmed when Spike answers. "Did you say something Boss? I can't hear you all that well."

"That's okay, Spike." Wordy hears the smile in Greg's voice. It's relief. He's feeling it too. That whatever happened out there, isn't as horrific as it could've been. Because memories of what happened to Lew aren't so far forgotten. When he looks over to share the mood lightener with Ed, the man doesn't wear a smile.

Sam's voice enters the abstract conversation. "Is Jules okay?"

"Jules?" Spike repeats loudly.

"Is she okay?"

There's radio silence and Wordy turns back to Ed, waiting for another heated conversation about how they're Team One and they need to keep the peace. About how Spike and Jules know this too and would want them to pursue the perpetrator instead of being rescued from a flipped car. Wordy wonders how they've remained friends for so long with clashing ideologies. How Ed could just leave two teammates in an unknown situation just for an adrenaline rush because things aren't going so well at home.

It's weird that Ed won't talk to him about it, but with everything that's happened over the last few months, maybe they've just grown tired of each other's advice. It's debilitating to hear Ed say in so many different ways that he should quit the team. That they have to be perfect and probability proposes that it's going to be the guy with Parkinson's who drops the team that one percent from a hundred to ninety-nine. In return, Wordy's weary of suggesting that Ed pay more attention to his home life. It's hard to flick the switch from bombs and guns to Sesame Street and applesauce but when you're sitting on the couch with three sets of pigtails, it's worth it.

They've all had bad days. This is definitely one for all of Team One. He stayed up all night with a sick three-year-old that was running a fever of a hundred and one degrees. Whenever Ally so much as coughs he gets anxious. He still remembers camping out by her incubator for days, living on coffee and a prayer. Telling Lilly and Maggie that she was a baby and not a doll because she only weighed three pounds when she was born.

Last night on his way to bed he heard Ally as she whimpered from her room. When he went to investigate instead of finding a rambunctious, wide-eyed toddler trying to break out of her room, he found her almost immobile in her bed. Her green eyes were half-lidded and all she said between hysterical sobs was, "Daddy sick."

He picked up his daughter and she was drenched in sweat but felt as if she was on fire. Only a few months earlier she'd gotten over a bad cold that was just shy of turning into pneumonia. He took off her cow patterned pajamas and called Shelley to explain what was going on. Together they both panicked while they tried to keep calm. A few cold compresses and Dr. Seuss stories later, Ally was a little calmer and Shelley told him to go get some sleep. But Ally flung her boney arms around his neck and begged in broken toddler-speak for him not to go. How could he refuse the daughter he first met through an inch of glass?

Finally Ally fell asleep against his chest at two in the morning as he sat in the rocking chair he bought for Shelley when she told him she was pregnant with Lilly. Ally's tiny fists were balled to remind him of the pain she was in. Her eyes seemed wrenched shut even though she was sound sleep. Her light brown hair pasted against the side of her face in a fever induced sweat. She's the only one of his daughters that inherited his hair color.

Shelley stood in the doorway in her pink floral silk pajamas with her arms crossed. She managed to catch a few hours of sleep when he sent her away at eleven. He told her to go check on the other girls and then to lie down for a few minutes. That he'd come to get her if he needed her. "Kev, you need your sleep."

Wordy grinned at his wife trying hard not to show just how fatigued he was. "She started to settle Shelley. We had a nice conversation about what we think the liberals are going to do come next election to win back the votes. It put her right out."

Shelley accepted his joke, but he knew she was worried. She was not worried because he has Parkinson's and he was tired and he was holding their toddler. She was worried for the same reason she would be even if he wasn't diagnosed with a degenerative disease. Because she loves him. She moved into the room and ran a cool hand through the short hair on the back of his head. "Let me take her, Kev. Then you can get a few hours."

He nodded and placed a kiss atop one Ally's head and handed her his gorgeous wife. Shelley leaned down and kissed his temple. "You're a good husband and a good father. We're so lucky to have you."

It was their sleeplessness, that's why she was talking that way. Shelley wasn't getting sentimental because he's not going to be able to do this forever. Maybe not even next year. He might not be able to lift Ally next year let alone Lilly. But he doesn't think that way because things happen for a reason. You can't change them. "I'm the one who's lucky."

"She's not moving." Spike yells over the comm. link, there's a hint of panic and frustration in his voice. "I can't reach her. She's kind of crumpled into the corner of the seat. Car landed on her side." There's a pause as the team takes in this information and a deep inhalation that Wordy suspects is Sam. Then Spike suggests, "I could yell to her, but I think the blast blew out our ear drums. Hers might be fine. I was closer to it."

"Keep trying to contact her until we get there," Greg orders, his voice is unwavering. Wordy knows that this has turned into a giant mess because Ed pursued the subject. "I've got EMS on route and Sam and I should be there in less than five."

"What?" Spike shouts.

"Shit," Ed yells. The clunk of his boot smashing into the break drowns out the comm. link conversation. Ahead of them, Keele Street starts to fill with traffic but is devoid of a red Dodge Ram. The dialogue and decisions proving too distracting to keep up a high speed chase. There are about a dozen side streets the truck could've turned down when they glanced away, even for a second.

"We loss the truck boss." Ed slams his palms into the steering wheel of the car. "Damn it."

"Ed, we'll get the guy." Wordy's calmness eludes the critical situation and instead of demanding they go back and do what they should've done to begin with, he taps his headset and talks to the forgotten member of the team. "Winnie?"

"Yeah Wordy?"

"Do you have anything on our truck?"

"Actually I do. Owner reported it missing from Brantford last week."

"No surprise there," Ed scoffs and shakes his head. "It's the car theft capital of Canada."

"All right, well check the traffic cameras around Keele Street and let us know if you get a hit."

"Will do, Wordy."

The rig drives slowly to the side of the road, the sound of pebbles and garbage crushing under the tires is louder than Greg and Spike's yelling match over the comm. link that both men have removed. Ed sighs while he discards a glove and washes a hand over his face. Wordy supposes that he's waiting for the old 'I-told-you-so'. Maybe, the younger, slightly more arrogant, Wordy would've mentioned the fact that now they're out a perp. and their friends are still trapped in a flipped vehicle.

But there's too much pressure. Too many hot calls, too many jumpers, too many bombs, too many drug busts and shoot outs and talk downs. Looming over all of that is Toth regarding them like a deity, making sure to read the transcripts and underlining anything that's subpar. The necessity to be perfect is inhuman. Being under constant supervision strums the strings of Wordy's confidence. So he starts to misjudge himself, first after near misses, then after not-so-near, then nearly every minute.

Buried underneath the heaviness of perfection are the private lives they all carry. He knows that Sophie and Ed are in a rough patch, even though Ed won't share a single syllable about the situation. Caring for two children over such a wide age expanse has to be stressful too. Spike's dealing with a terminal father which he won't talk about. In fact Wordy doesn't know anything about anyone's personal life. No more than he ever knew which is pretty jarring considering he's known all of his teammates for years.

Maybe that's the problem. Since Toth, they're all so consumed with work, all so afraid to make a miscalculation, that when they finally do it results in recriminations. It reminds him of running the drills with Spike. He still feels guilty about that. He should apologize for that. He should've helped Spike, but he didn't. What kind of team are they going to be if they can't be there for each other? What kind of team are they now?

* * *

><p>"Spike you've got to keep talking to us," Greg yells over the sound of the sirens. It's so gloomy out that the red and blue lights bounce and mirror off of parked cars as they speed down the street, barely waiting for cars to pull to the side before passing them.<p>

There's a crackle on the other end of the headset and it sounds like it might have been damaged in the blast. "You guys." Spike's breathing pretty heavy whether it's from talking loudly or just from the explosion, car crash combination. "You guys never want to hear my stories before."

"That's because they're boring as hell," Ed pipes in over the comm. link.

Spike lets out a laugh that sounds more like a hiss of air and Greg cracks a smile. However, Sam is not amused at the exchange. His jaw is set and he hasn't said a single word since Spike started talking.

Greg covers the speaker to his headset with a hand and questions, "Problem Sam?"

Sam shrugs and crosses his arms. Sometime between Spike contacting them and now, Sam's abandoned his gloves and become very reserved. "I just think Ed made a bad choice."

"He's Team Leader, Sam." Greg replies. They're flying down the 401 almost at the Keele Street turn off. It should only be a few more minutes before he can assess just how bad the damage is. Jules and Spike were both inside the rig, a reinforced vehicle. He's just hoping they didn't sustain any serious injuries. He knows how bad it can be. They all know how bad it can be and maybe that's Sam's problem. "It was his call."

"And you're the Boss. You don't think his decision was made on the fact that he wanted the rush of catching the bad guy?"

Greg removes his hand from the speaker because it's been more than a minute. "Spike. Buddy. Talk to me."

"Still here. Just—" The radio cuts out and there's only silence.

"Spike?" Nothing. No answer. Just like talking into a disconnected phone.

Like the chorus to a song, everyone starts ringing in with Spike's name trying to get him back in contact. But it becomes obvious that his comm. link was damaged in the blast and became disengaged. "Guys, I think his comm. link just died. Sam and I are less than a minute out. We'll let you know."

He turns his attention back to Sam and tries to create a persona that's exactly one half friend and one half boss. He tries to imagine what it must be like for Sam, how anxious he must be, while at the same time not condoning the relationship. He lowers his voice, "Don't take this the wrong way, but you're in no place to talk about being objective."

Before Sam can answer with a smartass or offended remark, Greg adds, "Jules is tough. I'm sure she's fine."

He's not against them. He wishes that everyone on the team knew that. When Wordy has to leave early whether it's for his kids or for his medical appointments Greg allows it. The same with Ed. In fact, he's surprised Ed hasn't taken more personal time with the new baby. Although when Ed left temporarily it did put more of a workload on him. Spike's left once or twice to drive his father to the hospital. Greg is nothing if not accommodating. The thing is what Sam and Jules are doing could ruin the team. They were flat-out given the ultimatum.

Sam nods and they take the off ramp in silence onto Keele Street. Smoke from the bomb is slowly dissipating into the atmosphere and as they approach the siren's flashes reflect off the thick, lazy plumes. Greg slows when rig number three comes into view in the middle of the road. The monstrous vehicle reposes on its side. A few metal girders curl on the ground, still barely aflame, but the way the rig is lying with the underbelly and gas tank exposed, a simple wind could waft an ember and blow it in a minute.

"The rig." Sam shares his concern and they both hurriedly unbuckle their seatbelts and race towards the overturned vehicle. The ground is jagged and uneven with chunks of concrete and metal.

"Winnie, where the hell is EMS?" Greg yells into his headset as he advances to the undercarriage of the rig. He's going to have to climb up onto the side of the car, crank the door open and pull Spike out. He has no idea if the same method will work with Jules. They'll have to see how badly she's injured before making a decision.

"They're still backed up from the MVA on Bay and King. Plus two more accidents have been reported since then."

Using a flashlight he's inspects the ground, making sure that there are no streaks of fluid or gasoline that could create a direct path for fire to follow. "Okay, tell them we have two SRU officers down at the scene and we need them as soon as possible."

"Got it."

"Spike." He cups his hands around his mouth and shouts to the car. Taking careful footsteps, Greg maneuvers to the front of the car and through the windshield he can see Michelangelo Scarlatti hanging sideways in the driver's seat only held in place by the seatbelt like a marionette. "Spike can you hear me?"

"Boss." Spike tries to adjust his body in the chair to keep it straight, but it keeps falling back to the side. The movement is machinelike and unsettling. His voice is muffled from inside the shell of the car. "That you?"

"Sure is, Buddy." He grins and gives Spike the thumbs up. Greg is careful not to touch the hood of the truck in case the engine is unstable. The most important thing to do now is to get Spike and Jules from the vehicle and away from the scene. "Sam and I are going to pull you out."

"That might take some time."

"What aren't you telling me, Spike?"

"My leg's pretty messed up."

Greg stiffly nods and keeps his face a blank slate. He can't let Spike see panic; his team needs calm. "How are you otherwise?"

"Can't complain."

There's the Spike humor. Greg laughs, "Good to hear, Buddy. We'll have you out in ten minutes."

When he finds Sam, he's on his knees on the other side of the rig. His bare hand presses into the windshield. Jules is crumpled on the other side of the glass, still unconscious from the blast. There are a few streaks of blood dirtying the windows.

Sam must hear his footsteps because without turning away he states, "She's not waking up, Boss."

"Sam, we need to get her and Spike out of the truck in case it starts to leak fluids." He keeps a firm voice as he attempts to verbally pull Sam away from the glass. "It will move lot quicker if we do this together."

Sam gives a stern nod and it's one Greg's seen only once before. Shortly after Jules was shot and loaded onto an ambulance he had to drag Sam away from her then too. They have a history, and Greg just wishes there was another way around it.

He turns his attention back to the rig, trying to calculate the best way to retrieve Spike. If Sam stands on the side of the car and pulls Spike out, Greg can be holding the door to make sure gravity doesn't force it back close. "Spike, we're going to open the door. Sam's going to pull you out of there, and together we're going to get you back on the ground."

"What about Jules?"

"We have to get you out before we can help her. So what do you say we get this started?"

"Boss?" Ed questions through his comm. link.

Greg gestures to the rig with his head and Sam ascends the overturned vehicle, climbing up to stand on the side door.

"What do you have Eddie?"

"We got a hit off our car in a parking garage on Bloor Street. Wordy and I are going to check it out."

"Good, keep me updated."

"Boss," Sam calls. He's lying on his stomach across the side of the rig with his arms inside of the vehicle helping Spike out. "We could use your help."

"Sure, sure." He jogs back around to the side of the rig and puts all of his weight into the door in hopes that it might bend backward and hold its position so he can help Sam out more. But the car is reinforced after all, and the upper body strength of one middle-aged man isn't going to crack its hinges.

"Spike, when I tell you too, undo your seatbelt."

"Make sure," Spike grunts with deep heaving breathes. "That you have me. I don't want to tumble back and hit Jules."

"Trust me," Sam responds with that army bravado and turns towards Greg. "I've got him by the vest. I'm going to pull him to the door, but I don't know how long I'll be able to hold him."

Sam counts to three and there's the click of Spike's seatbelt being released. Sam grips Spike by the shoulders on his vest and thrusts him towards what's actually the floor on the driver's side. Greg grips Spike's jacket around his biceps and places a foot on the bottom of the vehicle for extra leverage. Spike clutches onto the bottom edge of the car door for support and uses his good knee to help pull himself up. When he's two thirds out there's a second where he almost falls, but Sam catches him by the back of the jacket.

"Man, forget about Baptism. That's as close to rebirth as you'll ever get." Spike jokes as they maneuver him so he's standing on his own two feet.

Together they amble with Spike over to an uncluttered area by the curb. It's far enough away from the rig and the burning remains of the building that if anything did happen, it's unlikely that Spike would be caught in the fallout. He hobbles over to the smashed concrete and when it comes time for him to sit he hisses in pain and keeps his right leg ramrod straight.

Greg shines the flashlight into Spike's face. There's a good amount of blood especially around his nose and mouth, which were probably the point of impact. His pupils are equal and reactive so there's no further sign of damage than the superficial facial wounds he has, but some might require a stitch or two.

"You going to question me, Boss?" Spike winces at the impact of the light and turns his head away after a few seconds.

"What hurts Spike?"

"I know my face is pretty banged up. I looked in the rearview mirror." His humorous nature seems fleeting when he sends a glimpse to his right leg. "I think my leg needs something."

Sam reappears with the first aid kit from the back of their rig. A weak sheen of sweat breaking at his hairline because the summer heat has started peaking early today. Without even attending to Spike's injury, Sam hands Greg the kit, particularly, thick white bandages. "It needs a tourniquet."

When the plastic kit hits his hands, Greg knows exactly where he's going. "Sam, we don't know-"

"I'm going to get her."

Taking off his hat, Greg runs a hand over his smooth head where beads of sweat have begun to grow. Then nods in defeat. If they wait for EMS and Jules is seriously hurt, Greg won't be able to forgive himself. The downside of this chain of actions is that they're all going in the transcripts. Sam is well aware of that and doesn't seem to care for good measure. "Go."

Greg sits next to Spike on the curb and they watch as Sam effortlessly scaless back onto the flipped rig, then as he disappears through the ajar door. Then he carefully rolls up Spike's right pant leg to reveal the injury that's been worrying both of them. At the most he'll need a dozen stitches. Greg chuckles and shakes his head because Spike might have given him a heart attack. He ties the tourniquet just to be safe and then slaps Spike's leg. "You'll be fine."

He wonders that if in all this madness he was the only one who thought of Lew? The bracelet that Leah gave them hangs slack around his wrist as he waits for something to happen. For Sam to retrieve Jules, for EMS to get here, for Eddie or Wordy to give him some new information, for Spike's voice to return to its indoor version. Millions of people might want to blow up an insurance agency. This by no means, is going to be an easy day.

Greg was the one who had to tell Lew's parents that he died. How he died. Why he died. Convince them that he didn't die in vain. That Lew was a hero. He sacrificed himself to save Spike, Team One and everyone left in the building. But today bore too much in resemblance to the day they lost Lew. Too much for Greg not to be suspicious. If Jules and Spike had left the safety of the rig, he would have had to tell their parents what happened. The weeping Mrs. Scarlatti and the dying Mr. Scarlatti. Tell them that the whole reason their family was full of angst, the whole reason they can't sleep at night, their worst fears came true. He would have had to hunt through Jules' files to find her father's phone number in her emergency contacts. When he phoned him a few years ago to tell him she'd been shot, the man hung up. He just hung up.

He's going to have to phone his own estranged son at some point today and tell him that he won't be able to make it down to Dallas to see him graduate because of work. He's constantly being held back because of work. At first it was a form of penance. A heavy drinker who lost his wife and son, why not right other people's miserable lives? It was almost like something out of Marvel comics or mystery novels. Now it's leaking into people's personal lives, breaking up couples because they're on the same team. Monitoring how many times a day Spike calls his dad or Wordy's hands shake. Later on he'll have to write up Eddie for endangering Spike and Jules and refusing to be first on scene. That's not what a friend does. That's not even what a boss does.

* * *

><p>There's pressure against her shoulder in three distinct bursts and she swats it away. Then it's back again this time harder than before. Hard enough to make her open her eyes as much as she can. She fights away the hand that keeps prodding her in the same spot. Except that this time when her hand comes up, the perpetrator catches it and does the same when she brings her other hand up for protection.<p>

Some form of self-defense snaps on in her brain and she starts to struggle, until she realizes the hands that hold hers are familiar and safe. She's tense, but stops struggling and her view begins to clear until she sees a hazy shot of Sam reclining against the dashboard of the rig. He holds both of her hands securely in his. Then she notices that she's lying on her side and he's practically lying on his and where there should be a window there's asphalt and then she's remembers the explosion.

She must look terrified because he puts a bare hand to her face and it draws her attention back to him. The way the car angles she can barely see his face, but she can see that his mouth is moving and she can't hear him. Her eyes go wide and she shakes her head frantically.

Sam stops talking and brings a hand to his ear to indicate if she can hear him. Either that or he wants a very poorly planned game of charades. She shakes her head and he nods in understanding. So they're going to have to do this without talking.

What happened to Spike? Is he okay? She tries to turn her body towards the driver's seat but she keeps sliding back into the corner she's stuck in. Sam steadies her, and then places a hand softly on her shoulder to tell her to keep still. Yeah, I'll just stay in this car forever. She jabs a finger to the driver's seat and it takes Sam a few seconds for the gears in his head to grind out the answer. He gives her thumbs up.

Without any warning he pulls off her gloves and wiggles his fingers and then looks at her with expectant eyes. He places his hands under hers so that when she mimics his actions he can feel if there's any lag. It's useless since she just pointed using her hand of her own accord but his level of concern is endearing and hasn't entered into the annoying stage yet.

Then he bends at an awkward angle and she wonders what the hell he's doing until she feels him pull off her shoes. She wants to have an argument with him about how lame this is, and how she can wiggle her toes just fine. In fact, she should just kick him in the face to show him that she's not paralyzed, but he's so worried and so gentle and his hands are so big around her feet. She wiggles her toes and when he comes back up he's grinning.

He reaches forward and lightly touches the side of her face that's been leaning against the side of the car door for God knows how long. She wrenches away at the twinge of pain she feels, and when she reaches up to touch it herself she finds her fingers comeback wet and sticky with blood. How much blood is up there? Is she going to need stitches? Does she have a concussion? Is she going to have to go to the hospital? Their eyes meet again and Sam nods his head yes at her unasked question.

Great. So now she's going to have to go to the hospital. She hates hospitals. One in particular more than others. She's going to have to wait there instead of helping find the bastard who did this to her. She doesn't want stitches. She doesn't want to get x-rays. Can she even get x-rays if she's—

The baby.

Her panic expands tenfold and she grabs Sam's wrist with her bloody hand. "Am I okay?" She can't hear herself ask. He looks at her hand, than into her eyes and nods slowly. She wishes she could hear him because she can't tell if the slow nod is from keeping something from her or from her freak change in attitude.

Baby or no baby, even if she wasn't willing to directly accept the fact that she and Sam may have created a life she does not want to be solely responsible for ending that life. She can feel tears welling in her eyes before she can stop them and one of her hands falls to her stomach.

This is it. The 'hands-on-the-stomach-thing' is the universal sign for baby. Sam will know what happened. That she was pregnant with his baby for just over an hour and he'll probably never forgive her. Hell, he'll probably never forgive her for not sharing the 'peeing-on-a-stick-thing' with him.

Instead, he harshly throws her hand away from her stomach. He unzips her coat, undoes and discards her vest and lifts her shirt in search of the injury that is causing her so much pain that she's crying. His long fingers begin to prod the skin on her stomach as softly as possible and after a few seconds she questions, "Is there anything?" Because at this angle and in this light she can't tell where she's bleeding from.

He shakes his head and then feigns a stomachache himself to question if she has any pain there. She can't really tell anymore, her head is starting to hurt and she's really tired. The terror of not knowing if you've inadvertently ended your baby takes a lot out of you. It's at this very moment that she realizes that she really does want to have this baby with Sam. Would've been nice to know under less extreme circumstances.

Unconsciously, she starts to slump to the side and Sam grabs her shoulders before she can hit the door again. He pulls her close for what she thinks is a hug. It's nice. They're on the job so it's kind of inappropriate, but at the same time they might have a baby in less than nine months so people are going to find out sooner or later. She closes her eyes against his shoulders and can feel his chest vibrate when he talks even though she can't hear his voice; the motion has never been more soothing. Sam's so good to her, he always has been.

The last time they visited her apartment, which is beginning to resemble a mausoleum from its ill-use; she unlocked the door to find that after a brisk summer rainfall her ancient roof had sprung a leak. Needless to say one of her walls had gone from a magnificent Santorini sky to a hue between puce and gray.

Sam grabbed a pot to catch the steady waterfall through the pinhole in her roof and joked that they should start coming back to her place more often. They both know why they don't. Memories, of the ill fated kind. Painting the front room Santorini sky, Sam stealing all the paint thinner just to get her into the shower, him making her the same awful eggs every morning while she recovered from a bullet ripping through her chest, her choosing the job over him.

The drywall crumbled like week old bread underneath her fingertips as she started to clear objects away from the stream of water. Overall nothing was significantly damaged, a soggy wall and some grungy wooden floorboards. Sure, they would hurt the resale value of the place, but it's not like she was going anywhere soon. Then she saw the picture on the ground right in the middle of the sixth Great Lake.

"Oh my God." She was crying before she even picked up the kitsch frame that held the dull camera photo.

"What?" Sam asked as he threw another bath towel down.

"My mom's picture is ruined." The photo wasn't the clearest to begin with because it was taken in the 1970s after all, but it was the only visual she had of her mother growing up. The woman had reddish-brown hair and wore a navy blue one piece bathing suit. She stood where the waves met the sand at some pebbly beach and was heavily pregnant with Jules in the photo.

Sam took the picture from Jules as her hands trembled. "It's not that bad." But while he spoke water pooled underneath the glass frame and smudged the ancient colors.

They stood in the puddle of water that she was sure was leaking into Miss Furbish's apartment and he hugged her and told her soft words that she can't remember. After that night she was left with a mushy wall that needed to be redone, a damp floor and not even a picture of the mother she would never get to meet. She gave Sam the photo, frame and all and told him to throw it out because she couldn't bear too.

A week later, she was still in a snit, which was understandable. It wasn't like she could call her dad up and ask for another picture, since her brothers divulged over the years that he'd never been the same since their mother died. The topic was off limits at the Callaghan household. She wondered if she died when she was shot, if her family would stop talking about her. Like they did with her mom. Like Team One did with Lew.

She sat curled on Sam's leather couch, the one she really hated because it always stuck to her bare legs, and waited for him to bring back dinner. They decided to cool it with the public appearances for awhile since they had a near miss with Ed and Sophie at the movie theater.

Finally the front door clicked open and when she glanced over the summit of the couch she saw Sam brought Chinese food. Again. For the third time in the last two weeks. She really couldn't handle Chinese food to begin with, but it was right down the block so it was easy to get. Wait—so if he got Chinese food, what the hell took him so long?

"Where were you?"

"Nice to see you too, Jules." He had a hint of playfulness in his voice.

"You got Chinese and it's down the street. So what—"

A plain white plastic bag slid down his arm and he handed to her by the straps. "I was getting you this. I was going to wrap it up all nice. I even thought of saving it for your birthday or something but I don't think I can take another week of you moping around."

She'd never come so close to punching someone she loved so much. She tried to explain to him what that picture meant to her. Losing it was like losing her mother all over again. She wrenched the bag from his hands, upset about his implications of her mood and she hoped he knew this was one hundred percent real irritation.

But then she opened the bag, and it was like someone opened a window in a really stuffy room. The infuriation deteriorated like her Santorini wall because staring back at her was the exact same photo that she found floating in a puddle in her living room a week ago. Sam brought her mom back.

Her hand covered her mouth as she let out something between a gasp and a giggle. "How—"

He leaned against the counter, grinning like crazy and looking smug as hell. She didn't care. "I just called all the people who restore photos in town until someone told me they could do it."

She placed the picture on the coffee table and immediately turned into a quivering, girly mess. Sam crossed the few feet between them and wrapped his strong arms around her, his fingers slowly dragged through her hair as her wet cheek rested against his bare bicep. "Thank you, Sam."

"Jules." She's starting to get her hearing back.

Sam's shaking her again, but this time they're free of the confines of the rig. Somehow they ended up standing on the pavement a few feet from the wreck. Sam's holding her under her biceps. The air is pungent with smoke and sulfur and all the things expected when a bomb big enough to blow up a construction site goes off. The sky is still dark, but the humidity has dropped and it's starting to get cold. It's going to rain soon.

"You can't go to sleep Jules, you definitely have a concussion."

Before she can sling a witty comeback, Sarge runs over from the curb where he was sitting with Spike who looks shaken but okay. He's awake and talking loud, but there's a lot of blood. Then the lightheadedness returns with the intense need to throw up and go to sleep. She tries to pry herself free of Sam's grip before the Sarge can see, but he refuses to let her go. She thinks she hears herself muttering something her brain isn't exactly okaying before it's leaving her mouth. It's exhausting her. The verdict on Sam's slight public display of affection is, part of her is deeply worried about what Sarge will think but the majority of her is too flustered with dealing with everything else to fully care. She'll let it slide this time, Braddock.

"How are you doing Jules?" The Sarge screams at her and it's like being caught in another shock wave.

"I can hear okay now." Her hand travels to her head. The headache is definitely the greatest she's had post-college. She vaguely remembers a day a few months ago after going out and drinking with Sam where she was hung-over. That headache doesn't even compare.

The Sarge has out his flashlight and is shining it into her eyes before she has a chance to close them. Of course she recoils; the pain in her temples doesn't take kindly to being accosted by bright lights. Sam holds her still though and for an undisclosed amount of time there's only staring. An unholy amount of staring.

"She needs to go to a hospital."

"You need to go to a hospital." She answers Sam and begins to waver on her feet, but he straightens her again.

"EMS should be here by now." She can sense the growing tension in the Sarge's voice and he turns away to talk to Winnie. Jules wonders where the hell her headset went in all of this. Her shoes are too loose and she's starting to get cold because Sam left her coat in the car.

"Sam, I want to sit down."

"Jules, you can't—"

"I'm not going to go to sleep. You can't hold me up forever. Spike and Sarge will start talking."

He takes a deep noisy breath through his nose. "Sarge knows."

Sarge knows what? Whatever. She'll try a different approach. "I need to sit down."

Sam sighs, apparently conceding because they start to walk to where Spike is curbed. "Fine, but I'm putting you beside Spike. You need to stay awake."

"Fine. We have stuff to talk about."

"Like what?"

"Fine Italian cuisine and Toronto's shitty bar scene."

He chuckles and in a joking tone, repeats, "You really do need a hospital."

Jules sends a glimpse down to her untucked shirt and the entity invisibly ensconced underneath it. "I know."

"Jules?" His voice holds the same tone it did back at the elevator. He's worried and he knows that there's a reason to be. She thinks he's about eight seconds away from fireman carrying her into his truck and driving her to the nearest hospital himself.

"Sam." Sarge is beckoning him over with an arm wave.

He stops short, because he wants to discuss it further with her, which is not going to happen here. "I'll be fine, Sam," she reassures. To prove this, she manages to finally pull free of his grip to cover the few feet to Spike and the curb. She knows that even while he's talking to the Sarge he'll be watching her. If she hiccups, he'll see it.

"That was fun right?" Spike voice carries through the emptiness of the scene. He's leaning back against the curb like it's the beach. She wants to ask him how he can be so damned relaxed, but she remembers he's the bomb expert. Then a white cloth on his leg catches her eye and she knows that Sarge or Sam has tied a tourniquet to stop blood loss.

"You got a little something." Jules indicates just under her nose, where on Spike's face two twin streams of blood must've sprung free when he hit his head on the steering wheel or the dashboard.

"You too." He points to his right eye with a still gloved hand. Her hands are covered in blood and shaking. Sam took her gloves she thinks.

Reaching up she touches her face again and finds the skin still sticky and almost rubbery. There's an intense wave of pain followed by a composed numbness and she decides to leave the rest to the medical professionals. But it doesn't mean she isn't curious. "How's it look?"

"Like you went a round with Ali."

At that very moment a vociferous crack moves through the sky. There's only a few seconds for Team One to respond to a hypothetical second bomb. Jules ducks her head in her lap and covers her ears with her hands. As meager as the action seems, it's the only defense she has being left in the middle of nowhere on the curb with Spike. It protects her already concussed head and her stomach which is now without the barrier of a vest, which Sam also took. Where the hell did he put all these things?

The others' actions she doesn't see. All she hears is Spike laughing and repeating, "Perfect." Because the 'boom' wasn't the sound of a second bomb, but thunder indicating it was time for the sky to literally explode. When she straightens back up, there's a sheet of water so thick she may as well be in a pool and it's washing away all the evidence.

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter... May not be up next weekend. I'm coming down to the end of my summer and I have to get my stuff straightened out before doing my four hour drivemove back to school and since these mothers (chapters) keep almost doubling in size, the next one should be around 28,000 words. But know that all I do is write on my spare time so there is a chance that it may be up my next week. Just not a good one haha. The weekend after that I actually move, so there's no telling when the next solid update will be. I know right. You might as well just wait out the month hiatus on the TV show. I will say that there are some interesting revelations made in the next chapter, especially with Natalie and Spike. _


	4. Little Flicker

_A/N: Hey Guys. This took so long to write and get through, so I'm going to start off by saying that I know that there are going to be some spelling/grammar issues. Go easy on me. I updated my profile every time I did anything with the chapter, so you could see how hard I was working for y'all to get the chapter done. Doing that plus OT plus packing makes Shiggity just short of Jack Nicholson circa The Shining. That said, thank you for the lovely reviews and favorites. They really make my day. I'm glad you're enjoying the story so much. I know that the chapters are getting rather lengthy and I was thinking about breaking them so that each chapter was a single character's, but that's boring and I didn't like the way it flowed._ _I will also like to inform you that this story will end in two to three chapters. _

Domino Theory

Chapter 4

Little Flicker

His feet crunch across the broken glass and concrete on the road as he takes bounding steps over to the Boss, who's positioned himself at the back of their rig. Just far enough away from Jules and Spike so they can't hear the conversation. It's the perfect place to stand around, look casual and concerned while talking strategies on how to take down red truck driving psychos and how injured the two people they're sending cautious glimpses too really are.

"That was fun, right?" Spike's voice carries over the abandoned road. Just because he and Sarge are inaudible to them, doesn't mean the reverse is true. At least for Spike, who might as well be fitted with a loudspeaker.

Sarge is shifting on his feet, he can't keep still, almost like he's doing a dance. There's so much they have to do, but they're stuck because the pieces of the puzzle won't fall into place. It's making Sarge antsy.

Sam stands a few feet away from his boss and angles his body so he can see Jules sitting across the street. She crosses her arms over her knees while Spike continues to carry on a conversation with her like he's at the Roger's Center. She appears to be keeping up with the dialogue, but every few seconds her body sways slightly to the right. They've all been trained on what can happen during situations like this, even though Jules and Spike may be aware, they can't reverse ill-effects on their own bodies.

"EMS isn't coming anytime soon." Sarge copies his angles, taking up most of his view so that Jules and Spike are barely visible over Sarge's shoulder. The older man keeps unsteady feet and plants a hand firmly in his chin while he ruminates what they can do about the current situation. They need to contain the area, locate and dissect the device so that any tells can be cross-referenced with the database to help narrow down who manufactured it. Jules and Spike need to medical attention, and if it won't come to them, someone will have to take them to a hospital.

In all the hysteria, he and Sarge forgot to check the area for secondary explosives, an idea that enters his brain moments before the loud crack of thunder induces violent imagery of a second explosion consuming Keele Street. Sarge attempts to drag him behind the rig for protection, but Sam thrashes free of his grip and is halfway across the street when the downpour starts. He doesn't even flinch. The way this day is going; he sort of expects it by now.

"Sam," the Boss calls again through the torrential rains that are effortlessly destroying any chance forensics has of pulling evidence from the site. Any easy chance they had of identifying agents and chemicals if they're water soluble is now gone.

Sam shakes his head and waves for his boss to follow him. He's not like Ed. The most important thing isn't trying to reverse what this guy has already done; it's making sure that it's not going to get worse. "I'll take them to North York. It's only a few minutes from here."

The Boss contemplates this for a second as they stand in the middle of the road, completely permeated with rainwater. If the rain stayed contained in the atmosphere, Sarge would've taken his hat off by now in a deep deliberation. Sarge only nods in agreement, following Sam through the expanding lake in the middle of the scene. "We're going to have a talk later, Sam."

Sam shrugs. The threat of suspension or being reprimanded doesn't bother him that much. What does is his girlfriend, sitting on the curb watching the rain pelting the ground. Her arms hugging herself because he left her coat in the wreck, the loose-fitting fabric on the right arm got stuck between her chair and the rig's door when the car flipped. What bothers him is that for the next week or so, her face is going to be marred by a huge bruise and every time he sees her whether it's at work or in his bed, he's going to feel guilty.

"Come on, Jules." He gently touches her forearm to garner her attention. She glances up at him with glazy eyes that she hides by squinting them with question. "I'm going to take you guys to the hospital."

He's already helping her up with two warm hands on her icy arms when finally asks, "What about EMS?"

"EMS isn't coming." Sarge answers while placing an arm behind Spike's back to support him in his hobble.

Later on, maybe before they talk about ending their relationship, she'll tell him that her injuries aren't his fault. That there was nothing he could do, but she gives the same speech every time and he feels the same twinge of guilt in his gut.

The day they came back to his apartment after Natalie caught their impromptu makeout session wasn't only the renaissance of their relationship, but also the constant fear he feels when Jules is out in the field. He knows that she's accomplished and probably has more training than him, but he can't help it. It's probably the leftover psychosis of dealing with the death of Morgan. Everyone, his parents, the police, the doctors all said he couldn't have helped her. But maybe he could've. If he'd just pulled her back a second earlier. Walked a little slower so that she could keep up.

It's the same with Jules. She might not have been shot if he moved quicker with the shield. He took the shield. Why did he take the shield? He still lies awake at night sometimes. Even when Jules is safely nestled beside him in or in his arms. He'll run a reproduction of the day she got shot in his mind until the outcome is different. He has nightmares about it. He knows she does too, but she hides it from him. She still hides a lot of things.

The night they made it back to his place, after the Toth interviews, after Ed got shot and the double drop where he plunged ten stories down while he held her hands after he said there was no other place he'd rather be. He read Natalie's eloquent, not-so-appreciative note and was relieved that his little sister had flown the coop. After more than twelve hours at work, the last thing he wanted to do was share Jules with another person.

He wanted to make sure she felt the same way. He still has this lingering feeling that he only knows half of what she's really thinking. That he only knows half of the game plan and like the rooftop, it makes their relationship dangerous. It's not that he wants to have an escape plan ready; he just wants to be equals.

But there was no where she'd rather be. She'd stolen his words, his heart and his mind. When they feverishly kissed in his bedroom, one she hadn't seen in a few years, he mumbled against the smooth skin on her neck, "You need to think of your own lines."

She rolled her eyes and brought his mouth back to hers. "Shut up, Sam."

He wondered why they moved so fast. Why their actions were so fervent. It should've been something they enjoyed, savored. No one was going to call them back into work. Natalie wasn't going to burst back through the door. Maybe it was the persistent knowledge of doing something wrong. They were told only a few hours ago that exactly what they were doing was a little less than forbidden.

She dragged his shirt over his head, and they shuffled backwards towards his bed in some weird dance that they both remembered the steps to. He played with the hem on her shirt. He hesitated. Not to slow things down, but because he knew that underneath, on Jules' stomach and back, on the woman he loved, the woman he never stopped loving, is a huge scar that he caused.

She wrapped her arms around his neck and placed kisses on his neck and up his chin, but the backs of her knees hit the edge of his bed. He brought an arm across her back to steady her, and as she leaned back on the bed she exhaled in a painful hiss.

"What?" He took a seat next to her on the bed and noticed how the dip of his weight in the mattress pulled them closer together.

She shook her head, her hair was loose and it bounced around her shoulders. "It's nothing."

"Jules."

"Sam."

He rolled his eyes and moved to get off the bed, but she reached forward and placed a hand on his forearm. "I might have landed wrong in the double drop."

He knew it. He asked and he asked and he asked and he as—"Your knee?"

She nodded and cuffed up her blue jeans to reveal the purple and yellow hued bruise adorning her skin. Like he wouldn't have noticed that five or ten minutes from now.

He grunted disapprovingly and left the room. The living room was illuminated only by downtown Toronto's commercial lights, but Sam made it to his kitchen by memory. How many times had they practiced that technique during the drills and nine out of ten times she always landed sideways on her knees. He told her she needed to come down straight and let the subject take the force. That was the point. A point she couldn't get.

His freezer didn't have a light, but he knew where the icepacks were. He hadn't been having good luck at hockey lately and after a few heavy bruises he picked up a few pain numbing necessities including icepacks and an extra case of beer.

When he got back to the bedroom she was still perched on the edge on the bed, her good leg tucked underneath the exposed knee. She glanced up, saw the icepack and shook her head. "Sam, come on."

He laughed at her tenaciousness. If she was conscious after she was shot, she probably would've refused treatment from the hospital. "Just shut up for a second."

She was a little awestruck at his shortness but didn't protest when he sat down beside her and placed the icepack on her knee to quell the swelling. They ended up falling asleep together on his bed; Jules curled at his side with her leg across his torso so that he could hold the icepack in place. The pack, which eventually turned into freezing water, ended up on his bare chest and woke him at four in the morning. That was how the spent their first night back together.

Jules is completely soaked, her hair lies in straight lines, bangs obscuring her eyes as he helps her into the backseat of the rig. The black police shirt she's wearing is soaked to the point where it's heavy with water and continues to leak in solid streaks across the backseat once she's safely inside his rig. The shirt material sticks to her pallid skin.

While still standing in the deluge, Sam takes off his coat, and manages to drape it around her shoulders. Their eyes connect and a ghost of a smile ticks at the corner of her lips. Then, Sarge yanks open the opposite door to help Spike in. Her mouth becomes unreadable and once again they're not supposed to care about each other.

He waits for Sarge to take the driver's seat, expecting him to tag along for the ride now that it's pissing down rain and obvious that the world of emergency services has forgotten about them. But the Boss shakes his head and gestures towards the driver's seat. "I'm going to stay here and wait for more officers. We need to section off the street and start locating anything that's evidence. "

Sam nods and climbs up into the car. His clothing has the same sticky and weighty consistency as Jules' and it reminds him of the day they made him go swimming in the harbor. How everyone made fun of him afterwards except Jules who softly questioned him about his inability to swim. When he glimpses at her in the rearview mirror, her eyes are downcast and her arms have disappeared into his jacket that swims on her.

"Sam?" The Sarge is questioning. Was he talking this entire time? The rain is pretty loud even over his commanding voice. "Just drop them off and get back here and help us catch this guy."

"You got it." Sam slams the door, flicks on the sirens and is halfway to the hospital before anyone even speaks again.

Spike's checking his phone and Sam wishes that he could get evidence of this to send to Sarge as proof that he isn't the only one who acts unprofessional while on duty. "My phone still works, so if you guys find the device, send me a picture I'll see if I can help."

Of course it has to do with work. He has no idea how the rest of the team, even Jules at times, can be so damned detached from everything but the job. The sooner they all realize that besides a team, they're all people, more so that they all used to be friends until restrictions were placed on them. He doesn't remember the last time they all hung out after work when it wasn't for a debriefing.

Sam pulls into the ambulance bay at North York so that the back of the rig is parallel with the emergency room doors.

"Sam, Buddy," Spike is still yelling from the blast impact. Every time he talks, Jules presses on her temple. He's swiveling in his seat and watching over his shoulder. "I don't think you can park here."

"Oh yeah?" Sam puts the rig in park and hops out. His boots land in a giant puddle of water that dances underneath the falling rain and Spike's already got his door open. "Spike, who's going to give me a ticket?"

"Getting a little cocky there, Braddock?" She's unfastening her seatbelt and he wants to roll his eyes.

"Jules stay here for a second."

"Why?"

"Because I'm taking Spike in first and I can't support both of you at the same time."

"We're not seniors, Sam—"

"No but you're injured. Stay put."

He hobbles with Spike who's yelling something about his leg not being that bad. But all Sam can think about is Jules and her dislike of hospitals. Her walking through those doors is going to set off a psychosis that she won't admit to. He wishes that he could stay with her, but for some odd reason, she would probably like that just as much as Sarge. He wonders why even though they love each other so much, it still feels like she's hiding from him.

* * *

><p>Spike's good foot squeaks against the ground as he settles further into the chair that Sam dropped him in. Then the blonde moved to the triage nurse's desk and interrupted her phone call to tell her that there were two SRU officers with injuries, minor injuries, but injuries nonetheless. She sighed and told Sam she'd get to them as soon as possible. The hospital is busy, but not as busy as you'd expect when you can't get the EMS to come to you.<p>

Before Sam left to get Jules, he slapped Spike in the arm and told him to feel better. He felt kind of bad for saying that he didn't want to ride with Sam today. It wasn't personal; well it was but it wasn't Sam's fault. After all, you can't decide who you're related to and who you're not. If less than twelve hours ago he didn't have a passionate night of Italian love making with Sam's baby sister, then maybe he wouldn't have protested to a day of riding around in a car with him. All the protesting did was get Spike blown up anyway.

Checking his phone again, Spike notices for the first time that he two missed calls, most likely from his mom who's caught whiff of the explosion via the news, or through some mother/son mind meld. Instead he does a double take because the cracked screen says that Natalie's tried to phone him. Twice. He rubs a thumb over the crack just to be sure that the circuit isn't completely fried and as if it were fate, the phone springs to life with an incoming call from the object of his confusion.

Maybe it's the need for closure or maybe it's the fact that he bashed his face off the steering wheel so hard he was seeing constellations, but he answers the phone. "Hello?"

"Oh my God, Spike? I've been trying to get through to you for the past fifteen minutes. I saw the explosion on the news and they said that officers were injured. Is everyone okay?" Her voice has that youthful rambling that it usually does, but it's accompanied by the fact that she's nervous which at least doubles the tempo.

He waits for her to finish talking because he's really only hearing every other word. His eardrums are pulsating and he's beginning to feel a restriction in his temple that will lead to one hell of a migraine of someone doesn't do something soon. "Natalie. Natalie. Slow down."

"I'm sorry." He can hear her take in a shaky breath on the other side of the phone and imagines slender fingers coming up to cover her plump lips coated in pink lip gloss that tastes like marshmallows. "It's just Sam didn't phone me and then I didn't know what was going on. And the news wasn't giving any names."

"It's okay. Jules and I were hurt, but not badly." He glances up and sees the triage nurse giving him a less than approving look. She must know that he's not supposed to be giving out information on active cases too. Then he notices a sign that she's beating on like a tribal drum and it clearly shows he's not supposed to be on his phone. "Listen I—"

"Sam must be going insane then. No wonder he didn't call me."

"Nat, I gotta-What do you mean?"

"Nothing," she answers quickly. Even too quickly for Natalie. "I'll let you go Spike. I was just worried. I'm glad you're all right. Call me when you get a chance, okay?" And then there's just dead air like there was on his comm. link a few minutes ago. He's constantly being left out of the communication by everyone. It reminds him of what they did to Lew.

His nose twitches at the thought and the skin is tight because of the drying blood. Instead of wallowing in the departure of his best friend he tries to wrap his addled mind around what Natalie said. What did she say about Sam? Does he know about their tryst last night? He thinks she used the word 'insane' which is one he just never wants to hear.

But then he catches an offhanded glimpse of Sam through the two sets of glass double doors that lead into emergency. The flood lights in the bay reflect off the raindrops on the windows and it creates a very ethereal scene. Sam holds Jules close, closer than he held Spike, closer than he needs to, and he adjusts his coat around her. He bows his head so that their faces rest inches apart and it looks like he's saying something to her. She smiles back at him, and it's a smile Spike hasn't seen before. Her expression so genuine and at peace.

"Son of a bitch," Spike mumbles as he watches his two teammates reluctantly part. Sam drags his hand down Jules' arm and lets his fingers linger on hers before running back towards the rig and speeding away. So that's why he gets to use the elevator.

Jules shuffles through the automatic doors and falls into the seat closest to Spike. She doesn't really collapse into it, but she's injured and starting to not hide it so well. She leans to her right side and there's dried blood underneath her fingertips. Spike contemplates if they're really going to be cleared for active duty today and how much help they're going to be. One of the rigs is down, so someone would have to drive all the way back to HQ to get a replacement and then teams would have to be shuffled around since neither Jules or himself can drive.

"So, you and Sam?" His eyes widen under tightened skin and he's not quite sure where the words or the gall to say them comes from. Part of him wants the team to know that he's not as hopeless as they think he is. He's not just Spike that they can trample during placement drills. Sometimes he can be Michelangelo too. Part of him wants to know about the personal lives of his teammates. He wants to have a barbeque with Wordy and Ed and their kids. He wants to go on a double date with Sam and Jules no matter how terrifying that idea might be. They should hangout after work like they used to. Part of him wants to use the damn elevator too.

"So you and Natalie?" Jules replies, unfazed and without missing a beat.

Spike gawks at her with an open mouth as she casually raises an eyebrow in silent triumph. He's about to ask her how the hell she knew, but she reaches forward and places that damn earring that may as well been a neon sign, right in his palm. He's about five seconds from hurling the piece of jewelry at the triage nurse.

But then she poses, "I won't say anything if you don't."

This is interesting. It's against team rules for them to be dating, but they've already done it once before. Then he remembers they were all given specifics to follow probation and he's wondering exactly how long Jules and Sam have been creeping around. On the other hand, when it comes time to tell Sam that he's been seeing his little sister in a less than gentlemanly way it would be nice to have both the ladies on his side. "Deal."

The triage nurse ends any further continuation of the conversation as she is suddenly looming before them, hands on her wide hips and lightly sneakered shoes dangerously close to the rivers of water dripping off their uniforms. "You the SRU officers?" It's not so much a question as it is a demand.

"What gave it away?" He jokes with a smile and a relaxed demeanor. The nurse seems to miss this fact completely, or is unappreciative of his comic relief at this time.

"Follow me." Her voice is gruff and her walk is more of a waddle, the kind that Sophie and Shelley adopted late into their pregnancies. She leads them down into a bustling corridor, around orderlies steering gurneys at high speeds. It must be getting louder because when he glances back to Jules, she's holding her head. "Leg sutures right?"

"What?" His hearing is still a little hit and miss. All the added background noise must be stressing the miss.

They've stopped moving. The triage nurse flexes almost in half at her hips, or where her hips should be, to examine his wound. He tries to back up, but Jules is there and he prefers the awkward silence of the car pre-explosion.

"Yeah, you're in here." She guides him in with a thick hand on his shoulder. It's more like an eagle's talons digging a fish out of Lake Huron. With her other hand she's forcing a clipboard into his arms. "Fill this out."

"Jules?" He questions. His voice isn't really cracking, but he knows she hates hospitals; he's not a fan either since his father's been in and out of them for the last few months. The triage nurse still tires to push him in and he's clawing at the doorframe.

Jules seems to sense his discomfort and smiles, small and thoughtful with a hand still on her temple. "I'll meet you back out front when we're done."

He nods before the triage nurse succeeds in shoving him back into the room and shutting the door completely. She leaves to take Jules to her room and he's left in the sterile environment. A bed, rather a gurney with thin sheets, and a thinly knitted blanket. There's a window, but it's placed high on the wall and outside lightening flashes like someone is flicking on and off the lights to get some attention.

There's a metal tray on a stand that reflects the industrial lightening. It holds a lot of medical instruments. More than Spike thinks are needed to sew a couple of stitches into his supple skin. He gets what some of them are for. That could be for—no, because—well. Actually he doesn't. All of them look like they're meant to harm him further. They're all scissors and scalpels with the sharp blades and points.

He's sitting on the bed, keeping his injured leg straight and examining these devices of torture, when the door opens again and a younger nurse walks in. She's in her early thirties, has thick black hair tied back in a ponytail and light blue eyes. Her skin is an olive color, something accentuated by the carnation colored lipstick wears. Her entry startles him and he almost flips the table of sterilized instruments.

She smacks her jaws together, apparently chewing gum and rolls her sapphire eyes at him while pulling on cream colored latex gloves. "You the cop?"

"Yeah." He swallows harshly and watches as she wheels herself over on a footstool. "I'm the cop."

"Good. I'm the nurse. I'm doing your stitches. All right Officer—"she grabs his chart from the gurney beside him, but immediately tosses it back. "They get you to fill those out for a reason."

"Sorry." He apologizes and takes a pen as she hands it to him. He fills out the information as quickly as his mind remembers, though on the page it looks more like ancient scripture than any language he's familiar with. When he glances back up, the nurse is readying a syringe. "Wow."

"Oh, come on Tough Guy." She pops her gum as the needle sucks all the fluid from a container. "This isn't going to hurt anymore than it did getting the cut." She tosses the empty bottle in the garbage and flicks the needle point a few times. "How'd you get it anyway?"

He shrugs. He can't really divulge any details of the case, especially when it's still an active case. But then again the explosion is already all over the news and if she knows the pain he's already been through today, maybe she won't jam that needle, which he thinks is possibly growing bigger each minute, right into his open wound. "I was in an explosion."

"No shit." She puts down the syringe and has an almost mystified expression on her face. "That was you?"

Spike downcasts his eyes, feeling the blush creep into his cheeks. "Yeah that was m—" He holds the 'e' because she shoves the freezing solution in and for something that's supposed to numb, it sure as hell hurts.

"Sorry Officer—"She reaches forward again and takes the clipboard. "Scarlatti, but I needed you to relax."

"Yeah. Thanks," he mutters and tries not to notices while she gets the sutures prepared.

"That is freaking amazing though. I mean, you blew up today."

"Happens more than you think."

That's what he told Natalie when they met up for drinks last night. She walked from Sam's apartment; he drove and met her at a middle-class bar where they were just going to have one or two drinks to get to know each other. Well, the two drinks turned to four turned to taking a taxi to some almost underground club that played its music way to loud and sold its drinks for way too much.

But Natalie was all teeth and giggles and she dragged him out onto the dance floor until both of them felt like they were going to collapse. Even in the garbled remixes that today's youth classifies as music and the overused strobe light shocks she looked gorgeous. Thick full lips, gorgeous long blonde hair, long legs that disappeared in a dress that he was sure she wore to tease him. They ended up making out on the dance floor and stumbled into the coat check room even though neither of them had brought anything.

"I should take you home," he told her when he broke the kiss, the makeout session, the dream. But he held her, the smooth skin of her cheek soft under his calloused fingertips.

"Take me with you," She answered and glued them back together. Thin arms around his neck, strong legs almost around his hips. He wondered if she was a dancer.

He broke the kiss again. "I live with my parents." It was the universal turnoff.

She arched an eyebrow, but didn't remove her arms or legs. "I live with my brother."

That's how they ended up at the hotel. Room 618 and he did take the elevator up thank you very much. The whole time he felt like a teenager again. Like a collage freshman. Like this was the life he was supposed to have, but instead he got caught in family ties.

The next morning he woke first out of habit. Team One usually works out at 5am two days a week, which means a 4am wakeup call for Spike from his alarm clock. He woke up from his sleep in a daze, partially alcohol induced, but also with the persistent feeling he got after he knew that something was bizarre and wonderful at the same time.

Natalie stirred beside him, long dancer's legs curled around his as she moaned in her sleep. He detangled their lower limbs. He's sure she must be a dancer after last night, ballet probably. Her long manicured fingers splayed out on his chest and softly he returned her limp hand. He tried hard not to wake her, but he didn't want her to think that he was a jerk, that this happened all the time, because it didn't.

He managed to roll stealth out of the bed and get his pants, socks and had his shirt in his hand before she mumbled to life.

"Spike?"

"Morning Nat." He couldn't help but smile, the way she lay sprawled out on the bed reminded him of a house cat.

It took her a few seconds before she caught on to the fact that he was getting dressed, but once she did, her plump lower lip puckered in a pout. "You're leaving? What time is it?"

"It's early. I've got work." He bounced on the edge of the bed and pulled on his shoes.

The movement made her grin and she stalked forward on the mattress, hands snaked around him again, around his neck, around his chest, and into his back pocket. That is how the little memento that's been pricking him in the ass for the last two hours got there. "I'll call you okay?"

He kissed her goodbye, hands in her blonde hair that smelt like vanilla cupcakes and cherry Jello shots. Then all the way home he tried not to think about what happened and how it got out of his hands, or how he would explain it to Sam. Then he snuck back into his house at four thirty in the morning and heard his dad coughing up a lung. Then he fell asleep for half an hour too long and ended up almost being late for work.

"All right Tough Guy." The nurse pulls back on the thread while it's still in his leg and he feels his gut start to rumble and a familiar tickle at the back of his throat. She cuts the tread and places a piece of gauze over the sutures. "You're done."

"You're thorough."

She rolls her eyes at his compliment and snaps off her gloves that are spotted with his blood. "You're not my first."

The nurse appears like she's going to leave the room, but instead stops off at the sink just beside the door. The scrubs don't do much to show her figure, but she bends over to retrieve a small basin from under the sink and he'd be lying if he didn't say the view wasn't nice. His tongue darts out to wet his lips and the copper taste of blood welcomes him. Then he remembers what happened to his head during the impact of the explosion.

"Hey, what about my face?"

"Nothing we can do for that." She grins at her own joke, and returns to the stool with the water and places new gloves on her hands.

"Let me get a better look here." She adjusts the overhanging light so it's almost directly in his face and he tries not to complain as she pokes and prods his open cuts. Through the pain and the oozing of warm water on his face he watches the beauty mark by her lip twitch as she gives him directions.

"That's the best I can do for you, Bud." She clicks off the light and it takes a few seconds for his eyes to regulate. When he looks down the water in the basin is dyed red with his blood. "The rest is mother nature's fault."

The second pair of gloves is already in the trash by the time the black dots are out of his vision and she's almost out of the room. "Wait a minute. That's it?"

"What?" She asks from the door, the momentum of her stopping causing her ponytail to swing like a pendulum.

"Don't I get a lollipop or something?"

"Oh you want treat?" She shuts the door and arches an eyebrow, almost as a challenge. He doesn't have time to react before she's snatched his phone off he gurney beside him and is entering something into it. "That's my number."

"Oh. Umm." What?

"What's the matter? Do you have a girlfriend or something?"

"Umm." What?

"Okay. Well here is my number. If you decide you don't have a girlfriend, or you just want to hangout. Give me a call."

This is not happening. There is no way that he's got the numbers of two amazingly fine women in less than two days. He pulls out the classic heart stopper. "That might be a problem. See I live with my parents."

"So do I." Then she crosses her arms and narrows those blue eyes at him. "Are you making up excuses Michelangelo? It is Michelangelo right?"

"People call me Spike."

"I'm not going to call you that. That's stupid." She picks up the clipboard once again and returns to the doorway. "Well I'm Pandora. My friends call me Andy. And if you ever want to stop making excuses, give me a call Mikey."

What the hell just happened?

* * *

><p>"What?" Wordy questions. His voice is a little strained, a little too impatient to be naturally considered Wordy, but it's still his old friend.<p>

Ed releases his hand from his friend's coat and points to the truck. It waits immobile, lurching to one side because of a gimpy back tire. Something doesn't feel right. It shouldn't be this easy. When a bomb takes down the bomb expert, it's not this easy. "Something's off."

"You think they bobby trapped it?" Wordy shuts the passenger door and the dinging inside the rig stops because Ed hasn't removed the keys from the ignition yet. Sometimes they switch sides, it's something that sporadically happens after twenty years of friendship, when his partner adopts the fight tactic Ed picks the leftovers.

Without taking his eyes off the vehicle, Ed reaches a lithe arm into the back of the rig, fumbling around objects until he retrieves a pair of binoculars. "I'm thinking something."

"Ed. Wordy. Status," the Boss demands. No doubt the situation has made the all a little edgy, but usually Greg deals with his grievances after work, not by getting short with the already undersized team.

"We've got the truck, Boss." Ed informs. Through the binoculars he notices that the driver's door is ajar. Something confirmed by a blinking light on the dashboard that mimics a Christmas tree bulb. "Something doesn't feel right though. It's abandoned, but the door is open."

"All right. Proceed with caution and keep me updated."

"Hey Boss, how are Spike and Jules?"

The Boss's voice lightens a little with a short sigh. "They're okay. EMS never showed. Sam drove them to the hospital."

"They needed medical attention that bad?" Ed doesn't ask because he thinks that the unscheduled hospital excursion is a waste of time. He feels the first pang of guilt. Maybe he should've gone to the wreck instead of pursuing the subject.

"Sam took them to be safe. Only minor injuries. Nothing a nice quiet weekend won't cure."

"Good to hear, Boss." Wordy smiles and the comm. link falls dead.

Before Wordy can start in with the reassurances, the calming smiles and the friendly my-door-is-always-open lifetime move-of-the-week bullshit, Ed yanks the keys out the ignition. He might have failed Spike and Jules before. As far as being the Team Leader goes, no one is going to be making comparisons to him and the gallant white knight, but he can still catch the son of a bitch who did this.

"Let's go."

"Ed." Wordy's shaking his head. The distinct voice of reason. His eyebrows are slanted, caring and for now they're just friends. Not teammates, not cops, not the SRU Team One Leader and colleague. "Take a second."

It's an option they're not usually allowed. Much like their need for perfection, they also need to do it now. Not a minute from now, or a second from now or a millisecond from now. Now. Period. When a husband has his wife at gunpoint and Ed has to take the shot, he can't pull the trigger in a second. When a terminal cancer patient teeters over the edge of the eighth floor of a hospital the Boss can't start negotiations in a second. When the numbers scroll down on a clock face attached to a bomb, Spike can't take a second before deciding whether it's the left or right wire to cut.

"No. Now."

Sometimes he thinks about his own personal exchange with Dr. Toth, all the snarky comments aside. The good ol' Doc asked him where he retreated too when work became too much. Naturally he went to Sophie and Clark, who were somewhere else at the time. Nothing much has changed, except that now there's another tiny body to factor into the equation. Part of him is terrified that one day he's going to wake up and find that Sophie's left again. Part of him is more terrified that she'll take Clark and Izzy with her.

Things seemed so much simpler when Clark was Izzy's age. A pudgy little boy who always had the appearance of an old man. Ed would race home from work the first few months just to see the infant, who was always clothed in some ridiculous overall/sweater combination because he was born in the dead of winter.

"Sophie, for God's sake dress Clark like a baby." He laughed and rocked his son on his shoulder around the living room of their new home. They'd just moved in a month ago. Boxes were strewn all around the walls and mimicked the patterns of the fallen snow outside.

His wife glowered at him, but beamed when he turned his back to reveal their son. An action he caught with a swift glimpse over his shoulder. "I think it makes him look cute. He looks like your dad."

"Now there's a contradiction if I've ever heard one."

Sophie laughed once, too enamored with Clark to restart the argument of whose parents their son looked more like. With one of his tiny hands in hers, she stepped lightly on another more delicate topic. "Ed, you've got to think about taking more time off."

"Soph." He turned around, making her release their son's hand. "We've talked about this. I will once it slows down. I can't right now, but we're training a new guy."

"Yeah, okay."

In his arms, Clark started to stir from his limp three-month-old sleep. He made a sound similar to a croak and Ed gently tapped him on the back. "I swear we are, Soph."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know. There are a dozen recruits. There's a guy named Ollie or Rollie that Greg likes though." Clark's low cries grew in volume, and Ed shifted his arms trying to assuage his son.

Sophie crossed her arms in protest. "Ed, your family needs you."

"I—" Clark began screaming. Tiny balled fists knocked against Ed's arm as his son's face grew red and wet.

"I'm getting tired from doing midnight feedings all by myself—"

"It's all right, Buddy. It's okay"

"And we still have to get settled into the house—"

"Can you take him?"

"And the fireplace is still broken. It's freezing in here—"

"Soph, what's wrong with him?" He held his infant son out at arm's length while he writhed, still screaming, still red and wrinkled like a raisin.

She grasped Clark expertly, without forethought, without fear. Every time Ed held him, a small piece was still afraid that he wasn't doing it right. "Nothing's wrong with him, Ed." His son curled against her chest as she gave him her knuckle to suck on. "Maybe if you were around more often, you would just know what to do."

"Soph—"

"No Ed. He's never going to be this age again. Before you know it he's going to be in school. And if this is the way you treat your family, I'm not having any more of your kids." She waited a few seconds for his rebuttal, but the harshness of her words tore his tongue slack. She shook her head not quite in disgust and left the room cradling their only child for the next sixteen years.

He and Wordy move stealthy across the almost empty second floor of the parking garage. Water drips down from the ceiling in single droplets that echo through the empty cavern as they hold their guns in a prepared position in case anything changes with the truck. It's happened before. If this were any other situation, Ed probably wouldn't let his friend have a gun. But he figures if Wordy' having as bad a morning as he is, then he could use the confidence boost.

Ed holds up his hand and Wordy immediately stops. Pretty good for someone who's sick. They're both thinking it. Solitary, Ed approaches the ajar driver's door. When he's close enough to hear the steady warning of the 'ding', he brings out the mirror to scan the area making sure that they won't trip any wires when they inspect the car; that it's not rigged to explode.

Usually this is Wordy's part of the job, but when a feather light touch can set off a bomb, you don't want someone with careless hands in the general area. "It's clean."

Both men physically relax, drop their serious stance and lower their guns. Ed bends down to examine the undercarriage, and after several seconds, there is nothing that appears out of the ordinary. "Boss."

"What do you have, Eddy?"

"Truck wasn't a trap, our guy's just inexperienced." He and Wordy finally share a grin, because in their business inexperience is good. It means the perpetrator is sloppy, doesn't clean up evidence or loose ends and it makes them easier to find. He'll be home on time tonight.

"That fits with what Sam and I got."

"Which is?"

"The device is four propane canisters and your very basic timer. There are chunks of them floating around here."

Wordy sends him a concerned glance from the other side of the truck. "So we're thinking really inexperienced. Like a teenager?"

"I don't know yet, Wordy. You guys just turn that truck upside down and tell me what you find."

"Will do, Boss."

Ed doesn't hesitate to crack the door fully open and pull the keys from the ignition. There may be a miniscule sliver of his confidence that wants to bring up the criminal mastermind who would blow up a construction site with barbeque materials and then rig his car with some ingenious horror film level of a trap. The thought flashes away when the keys are in his hand and nothing happens except the trucks sputters dead and musical chimes cease.

"Definitely inexperienced." Ed shakes his head and runs a gloved hand along the side of the driver's seat to feel for any rivets that feel slack or objects that feel out of place.

Wordy shakes his head as he examines the floor of the passenger's side with a flashlight and stern set eyebrows. "I don't know, Ed. Something about this just doesn't add up."

"I said that already."

"You know what I mean." Wordy pushes the passenger's chair forward to inspect the backseat. "No one could this inexperienced."

"Well." He bends with his knees and now has his hand under the chair, then along the paneling in the door. "Maybe they're just stupid."

"I think you're right."

"What?" Ed glances up at Wordy who has his flashlight trained on the backseat of the car.

"Look in the back."

The cadence of Wordy's voice makes him scramble to his feet. He pushes the driver's chair out of the way and is more than surprised by what greets him. Papers cover almost all of the faux leather backseat, but they're schematic drawing of the device, and maps of Toronto.

He holds up a large map tarnished with red blotches and numbers scribbled in the margins. "Wordy, there are more locations marked on this."

* * *

><p>Wordy covers his mouth with a gloved hand and contemplates if it's shaking because of the fear, or the adrenaline, or the Parkinson's, or some sordid combination. Without a further moment's hesitation, he taps his headset to life. "Boss, we got a problem."<p>

"Talk to me, Wordy."

"Ed and I found maps and diagrams of the devices in the back of the truck. There's dozens of them, but one of the maps has more locations and times marked on it." Ed hands him the crumpled map. This is definitely not the work of someone with prior experience in any law breaking factions. The mess in the backseat and the shoddily folded map is true to this; usually bombers keep anything to do with their work in perfect order. Like an artist would with a portfolio.

There's a deep exhalation on the other end. "How many times and locations, Wordy."

"Including the one that's already happened, five. But two are crossed out."

"Keele Street and which one?"

Wordy shakes his head as he looks at the map of North York. "That's the thing, Boss. The explosion that hit Spike and Jules isn't one that's crossed out. All the locations are around The Junction too."

"You said there were times too?"

The map crinkles underneath the force of his hand as he drags a fingertip under the scribbled numbers. "Yeah a column down the side of the map. The first time is 8:00a.m."

"Which is when Keele exploded."

"Right. The next one is at 10:30a.m."

Greg sighs into the comm. link. "That only gives us about two hours."

"Ed and I can check out the crossed out locations, find out why they're off the list."

"Winnie can research the other two to see why they're still on," Greg agrees. "Take a picture of the map and send it to our PDAs, Wordy."

"You got it."

He stretches the map over the hood of the truck and takes a picture. The image sends to all of Team One including Winnie, Jules and Spike even though he's unsure how much the last two will be participating. Spike might have actually gotten lucky because propane tanks are pretty basic. Hell, even Wordy knows how they work. The girls love hot dogs and hamburgers in the summertime.

"Let's get this stuff back to the car." Ed's already collecting handfuls of the papers, not really crumpling them further, but definitely not sorting them in any system known to man.

That's how they've always been. Ed quick to shoot with Wordy working the less lethal angle. Sometimes he still questions whether lethal force is necessary. It's not his place, but sometimes he wishes it were. Even though this is the niche they've created for each other over nineteen years of friendship, Ed is always the one who negotiates. Wordy, his name forsaking him, rarely gets to talk people down. One time Ed said jokingly that it was because the team would be there hours later. That Wordy's just too nice of a guy.

"Give me those." He holds out his hands, sturdy as cinderblocks and accepts the mass amount of paper that crinkles into his arms. He'll sort through them while Ed drives.

The first address is another construction site, but this time situated on St. Clair Ave. It's a little after 8:30am, so the crews should already be there and they can get the information they need from the site manager or foreman. The next location is on Dundas Street a block away from the railroad tracks. Hopefully the facts come quick so they can narrow down their subject's motive and find the next spot by the allotted time.

The sirens are blaring and Ed has the same serious expression on his face that he gets whenever he turns on those damn things. He chronically overuses them. Wordy thinks that they make him feel important. The lights and the klaxons are a sign to all the civilians that Ed has authority over them in some way, so he uses them whenever he can. On one level it gives Ed a childlike endearment, an obsession with bright, loud objects is rarely something anyone grows out of. On another level it's dangerous. Replace the sirens with a gun and you've got the subjects they spend the shift hunting down.

Wordy separates the papers into two distinct piles. One pertaining to drawings of the bombs and another dedicated to the map, locations and planning issues. Every single piece of paper seems to have been kept, which is similar to regular bomber manifestos. None are crumpled into balls or ripped in half. But none are typed out on a computer, there are spelling mistakes and areas that have been crudely scribbled out.

As he shifts the papers, one of the pictures sticks out immediately. This is because it's neither a map, nor a drawing of the device. It appears to be a drawing done by a child, maybe Maggie's age, maybe a year older. It's a blue cow, though Wordy has to use his skills as a father of three young girls to recognize this. The picture makes him smile for a second, and he wonders how something like this got mixed in with bomb schematics.

The drawing makes him think of Maggie, his middle daughter. Lilly and Ally are active little hellions: climbing trees, running through the sprinkler in little bikinis, playing catch and make believe. Maggie is different. Maggie is quiet and polite and has the atmosphere of an old soul. Something unaided by her need for glasses at such a young age.

When Shelley was pregnant for the second time, Lilly was a reckless toddler with shoulder length brown pigtails and he didn't think he could be more in love with his child. They sat on the couch after he came home from work and watched Sesame Street or the Wiggles. Lilly never had to beg him to dance with her. She never will.

Shelley waddled around the house, with a bag of peanuts in tow, her favorite craving with Maggie. That was how Lilly learned about elephants. Every now and then his two-and-a-half-year-old would point at his wife and call her an elephant and Wordy would suck on his teeth to hold in his laughter.

After Lilly was in bed for the night, Shelley rubbed her stomach and questioned, "What do you think it'll be."

He looked up from the book he was reading. Something on preparing for the baby for fathers. He read it for Lilly, but it had been a few years so he figured it couldn't hurt to reread it. Besides Shelley was doing all the heavy lifting. "Hopefully a baby and not an elephant."

She laughed and grabbed his hand to move where the baby kicked and he smiled with pride. "What do you want it to be?"

"Healthy." It was the standard answer. He didn't want her to feel disappointed on the day the baby was born if it wasn't the gender he wanted. More importantly, he didn't want that child to feel like a failure, for being born the wrong gender.

Secretly though, he wanted another girl. When Shelley was pregnant with Lilly, he wanted a boy. He supposed that all dads want a boy because their easier to teach, easier to bond with. The thought of daughters are intimidating. But after Lilly, he knew how to change the diapers, knew how to paint the tiny finger nails, and knew how to put hair into pigtails, ponytails and braids.

"I'd kind of like a son." Shelley divulged as she popped another peanut into her mouth.

He rubbed her stomach in a circular motion and lied, "A son would be nice."

A month later, on one of the hottest days Toronto had ever seen, Maggie was born just after 12pm. She weighed a little over six pounds and remained very quiet during the whole process. A trait she still keeps to this day. Wordy tells his wife that Maggie's the watcher. She watches situations before engaging into them, where as their other two daughters run into anything blindly.

Shelley cradled their newborn daughter in her arms and adjusted the cap over Maggie's eyes so she could see, even though her blue eyes were closed. "She has my mother's hair."

She did. From the moment of birth Maggie had a tuff of rich auburn hair on her tiny head. Now at the age of five, her hair is beautiful and naturally curly.

Wordy sat on the side of the bed and admired his new daughter. A new little person that he could teach to tie her shoes and to skate in the wintertime. Shelley shook her head. "I thought for sure she was going to be a boy."

He supposed since she was finally here he could let Shelley in on the secret. "I knew it was a girl."

"How?" She handed his daughter to him, and she was so tiny in his arms, but so calm. Lilly was screaming from the moment she was born until he and Shelley left the house that morning to come to the hospital.

"I just knew."

"Well, do you have a name?"

He did. "I was kind of hoping we could name her after my mom."

A few months after Lilly's birth his mother succumbed to cancer so quickly, it was still hard to believe at times. His dad wasn't doing so well, and Wordy didn't expect this baby to completely reverse everything, but at the same time, she could be named in honor.

"Margaret?"

"Maggie for short."

Shelley pursed her lips in thought, but then nodded her head. "I like it."

Now when he comes home from work, he searches in the backyard for Lilly, who is off climbing trees, or fighting pirates, or riding unicorns. Then he moves into the kitchen where Shelley is creating dinner, each night the concoction smells more delicious than the night before. In the corner of the room is Ally in her play pen, who raises skinny arms up to him. He airplanes her around the room for a bit and then puts her in booster seat for supper.

He travels to the front room where little Maggie, with her red hair and tiny glasses is an amalgamation of her grandmothers. She sits with her knees bent at the coffee table drawing, or making puppets, or paper snowflakes. Sometimes she leans forward so close to the paper she's coloring on that she's immersed into a whole world of her own.

He doesn't make a sound and she inherently knows he's there. "Daddy?"

"Magpie." And as they embrace, she'll give him a drawing of whatever she was thinking up that day. Onetime it was what she thinks he does all day, which is eat doughnuts and ride roller coasters. That one is at work so that all of Team One can enjoy it.

"Ed," he calls his partner's attention to the crayon drawn picture, holding it up for him to view.

"That is definitely not a bomb." Ed shakes his head because they're thinking the same thing. The reason the subject is so inexperienced is because they're planning these explosions for domestic reasons. "We need to get an angle soon, because this day can't get any worse."

They roll up unto a gravel clearing that in the future will be a parking lot for some corporation. A thick man wearing a hard hat and an orange safety vest waits for them under a makeshift awning between where the employee cars are parked and the descent to where the construction begins. Winnie must have phoned ahead to the foreman and told him to meet them outside. Although Wordy was sad to see Keira leave Team One as a dispatcher a few years back, Winnie is phenomenal at the job. He'll have to make sure to tell her how much she helped out today.

He's only managed to sort through about half of the pile of paper, but the rest can wait for the trip to Dundas Street. He places the papers in neat piles on the dashboard and before he or Ed can exit the rig, the foreman is already taking two big steps forward into the downpour. "You guys the cops?"

"That would be us." Ed answers for them as he shuts the door and moves briskly around the rig to greet the man. "You the foreman?"

"That's me." The man removes a work glove and offers his hand to Ed and Wordy. "Can we do this fast, I've got a tight schedule to keep?"

"Not a problem Sir, we'll keep this short and sweet." Ed begins asking questions about the building going up. How long the construction has been going on. If there's been any threats or suspicious activity around the site. The normal things. Wordy inspects the site from afar. It, like Keele Street, is nothing more than a few stories of girders, but there are a lot of men at work around the base of it.

"I think that'll do it for us then." They re-shake the foreman's hand and Wordy wears a smile in appreciation.

"Well thanks for making this quick. The city's got us on a tight contract to finish the development?"

"The city?" Wordy questions. The data that Winnie gave them said that the building going up was going to house the location chapter of a national bank.

The foreman nods. The movement shoots speckles of rain off his hard hat and through the air. "Yeah, it's an apartment building that's going to be low rental housing."

"We thought it was going to be a bank." Ed answers.

"It was. Until about a week ago. The deal fell through and the city bought up the land."

Wordy turns to Ed, raising an eyebrow in interest. "That's definitely an angle."

* * *

><p>Lightning streaks throughout the sky causing flashes of bright light to flicker and illuminate the otherwise darkened street. The explosion took out six of the streetlights, and the only other light source they have comes from the rig's headlights that Sam left on when he returned from the hospital.<p>

Greg doesn't talk to him as they search for pieces of propane tank, or dials or wires or anything that can be remotely linked back to the rudimentary bomb that blew up the site earlier. They've accumulated quite a bit of debris, but every piece they miss might be an integral part of the mechanics that they can link back to previous bombing. Or a piece that Spike can find out of place, like a signature.

The rain hasn't let up since the sky broke apart twenty minute ago, it's getting so the pieces of fragmented metal and frayed wire are actually floating away. Greg's had to chase down more than a couple. It reminded him of when Dean was little and he would chase him around the living room. When he was a good dad.

"Hey Boss." His comm. link booms to life over the torrential rain.

Greg takes a moment to stand, placing his hands on his lower back where the pain of getting older dully aches. Then he wipes the rainwater from his brow and the edge of his hat. "What do you have, Eddy?"

"We've been to both crossed out locations and can confirm that both were originally going to be corporate buildings. The deals fell through and the city bought out property for low-rental housing."

"So we're thinking that the subject is sticking it to the big guys then?" Rain drips down the side of his hat and over his ears. It's refreshingly cold for September. The steady pelting soon turns his skin numb and he barely notices that even his shoes are soaked through.

"Not so much. Wordy found a kid's drawing mixed in with the bomb schematics. We think it's domestic."

"Which could explain the inexperience." Greg nods; he knows the implications of a domestic bomber. They're easier to catch because they don't know what they're doing, but more people get injured for the same reason.

"We're waiting on Winnie for info on the other two building sites."

"Good work guys. Sam and I are done here. We're going to go pick up Spike and Jules and meet you at your next location." The comm. link falls silent.

Greg examines the street a final time, trying to search for any remaining pieces of the propane tanks, but in the dim light and with the rain, everything is reflecting the same color making the task a very difficult one. He contemplates how he'll negotiate with the bomber if it comes to that. They obviously have a family, which is a good angle. If he can get them talking about their kids they might back down.

In the distance, he can see the dark outline of Sam as he picks up something from the ground and places it in the evidence bag. He's going to have to deal with Sam and Ed's behavior today as well. He barely remembers how to reprimand anymore since the team has become more like a family. Everyone was so efficient at their job before Toth arrived that he didn't need formal reports that travelled through the upper channels, but now after the shift he's going to have to sit down and fill out the paper work and inform both men.

The part of Greg that Toth told to be boss is already thinking of lines to write in the given boxes. Both disobeyed rules, Greg will have to word it lightly so that no further reprimand comes to either of his friends. It's ironic that both Ed and Sam are punished for doing the opposite of each other. Ed for endangering the lives of his teammates and Sam for ignoring orders to save them. He wonders what would've happened if he had to give a formal reprimand to Spike during the time of Lew's death. This job is slowly becoming unfair to all of them.

Toth treats them like some radical science experiment, like Team One is feral and he needs to rehabilitate them back into society. Ever since Toth told Greg that Team One was on probation, there has only been negative conditioning. They haven't been rewarded for the hours of overtime they put in, for how many lives they save, or disasters they advert, or for repeatedly being perfect. Only their foibles are noticed.

It makes Greg feel a mixture of feelings. He's angry that he can't help out his team more. That he can't stand up for them and be the Boss and the Sarge that he used to be. He's angry at the changes that are being made and most importantly that he's responsible for them. He's tired every day when he gets up and every night when he goes to bed. It's more of an emotional and mental fatigue than it is physical, though some days he feels like he can barely function anymore. He feels helpless that he can't do anything to change the series of events that he's set in play. All he can do is sit back and watch.

There's only once in his life that Greg's ever felt like this before and then he started drinking and it went away. Being a homicide detective, it just felt so fruitless. He would arrive at the scene and every call would be the same. There would be needless deaths that he knew he could've prevented if given half a chance.

He started to dwell on cases to long. Started to remember faces he had no reason to. Started to fabricate ghosts of people who were happily laid to rest. Instead of taking the guilt and coming up with a permanent solution so more people wouldn't end up a washable chalk outline or a Polaroid photo locked away in an evidence box, he turned to the quick result.

Of course the quick result didn't work for long. Mainly because being a drunk doesn't really work when you have a family. He had a beautiful wife who put up with his long hours at work and a six-year-old son who wanted to be a racecar driver. He had Sundays off to go picnicking in High Park and explore the playground with his racecar driver turned astronaut. He had his future to teach his son how to actually drive.

He expected to fall back on a substance that would numb the horrifying things he'd seen from the world. That it would make him immobile, tired and most importantly carefree. He wouldn't have to worry about his wife and son going shopping downtown because of a drive-by shooting. Or going into a certain part of North York that was notorious for brutal gangs.

Instead the booze made him bitter and spiteful. It turned him into his old man. He became easily confrontational. He recalls one night Dean came into the Berber carpeted den, clad in footed pajamas with his Teddy after a bad dream. The room was dark and only flickered as scenes from the muted television danced across the walls until his then seven-year-old son turned on the lights.

The sudden blaze of light made Greg erupt; he stood quickly, flipped the coffee table and the empty beer bottles upon it and screamed at Dean. His wife woke up, their marriage already aflame on the rocks, and began to console Dean who cowered in the corner holding his Teddy. He and his wife shouted at each other the same words they did every day. How he supported the family and how he was tired. She told him to look at himself, how he failed all of them.

Finally while he was still in mid-shout, she shook her head at him and stated that she was done. She walked a shaken Dean out of the room with a comforting hand on his back. The next day when Greg got home from work, Dean's room was completely empty and his wife's clothes were missing. They were gone and there wasn't as much as a note. He stayed drunk for the next three days.

In the headlights of the rig, he can see Sam's eyebrows still knit with worry. Greg represses a smile because he knows that Jules must find this fussing annoying. She's not one to want to be taken care of. Even after she was shot she didn't want any special treatment, she still doesn't.

"Sam," he calls out in the rain so he doesn't startle the sniper. "I think we're done here."

Backup showed up ten minutes ago and has been dealing with the actual construction site, while Sam and himself wadded around in the streets. Among the two of them, they've used over three dozen plastic evidence baggies, which is verging on insanity. There has to be an end to how many miniscule pieces they think they can find.

Above thunder rolls as the wind picks up and blows the rain sideways. Sam's face scrunches against the onslaught of water. "We going to meet Wordy and Ed?"

Greg nods and places a hand on Sam's shoulder to direct him back to the rig. "We have to go get Spike and Jules first. Ed and Wordy are figuring out the next target, and hopefully we can all meet up."

Sam's quiet for a moment, his head cast downwards to keep the rain out of his eyes and his blonde hair plastered every which way a crossed his forehead. "Listen Sarge, about before-"

"We'll have to talk about it later, Sam." Greg's voice is stern and he doesn't recognize it as his own. He thinks that the part of him that's the caring boss, the friendly boss is slowly disintegrating. He tries to remember what it was like to have someone to care about. Someone to go home to. Someone who waits up for you. Someone to make breakfast for on Sunday mornings. Then he adds, "But I understand."

Just before they reach the rig, in the distance familiar blue and red lights flash with a screeching sound. His team is all accounted for, no other teams have been assigned to this case and they already have their backup finishing the search of the area. The sirens grow closer and Greg discovers to what vehicle they belong to. "You've got to be kidding me."

EMS has finally arrived.

* * *

><p>Her phone is broken. Completely broken. Broken beyond the point of a warranty, broken. She's sitting on the edge of the gurney, her heavily booted legs dangling like a toddler's in a shopping cart. She told Sam she'd text him. Well, when he pulled her into the semi-embrace that made their relationship for Spike, he asked her to text him when she got out. She can't, her phone is broken. Seven of the keys are missing. There's probably also a nice cell phone shaped bruise on her upper thigh that she or Sam will find later.<p>

Her heart is beating so rapidly, she can hear it in her ears, or thinks she can. Either one might be a symptom of the concussion. She really doesn't remember her emergency training that well right now. Hitting your head tends to leave you blank on a lot of key facts. All she knows is that her can't even Google pregnancies and car accidents on her cell phone to see what the odds are that this baby is still a baby.

Just breathe Jules. She takes a deep inhalation and tries to relax as much as she can. She's in the right place. She'll just tell the nurse the exact situation when she gets here and maybe she can fix it or something. The back of her heels kick the metal rods that holds up the gurney and shoot a spray of muddy water across the ground. Even she isn't that naïve, this is either going to end very well or very badly.

She wishes Sam was here. Even if he is still completely clueless because, well, he's a guy and basically has even less of an idea of how these things work than she does. In rare situations where she can't manage to keep it together, he's her rock. He'll listen to what he calls her chicken squawk ramblings and then coolly reply with a coherent answer.

After they got back together, about a month into their relationship they had their first argument. She can't even recall what it was about now, but at the time it seemed monumental. They argued around Sam's living room for a good half an hour. Natalie actually made an appearance, but quickly ducked out. Later Jules would learn that the Braddock siblings get nervous around fighting couples because of their rough childhood.

She grabbed her jacket from the back of Sam's couch because they were getting nowhere fast. They were both so stubborn that they were going to lose their voices before they came to an agreement. "Maybe we should spend the rest of the weekend apart. That way we can cool off by Monday and actually work together."

"Fine by me." Sam grumbled and watched as she left his apartment. He had his arms crossed over his chest in what she liked to call his 'soldier stance'. It basically meant he was impenetrable, that he wasn't moving or changing his mind. After dating him before and now dating him again, she still has not found a way around that stance and it's not from lack of trying.

So she slept alone that Saturday night and it reminded her of the last two pathetic years. Of how aside from saving countless lives, she's really accomplished nothing on a personal level. The queen-sized bed was way too big and the apartment way too empty. Even the weekend traffic wasn't enough to keep her company.

Then just as she started to fall into a pity induced sleep her phone rang. The luminous red numbers on her clock radio read out 1:53am and she knew it had to be Sam. He felt the exact same way she did and wanted to reconcile. She let the phone ring twice more before she picked it up. But it wasn't Sam.

Long distance, all the way from Medicine Hat her dad had called her. This had happened before and would happen again. Usually the machine got it because she'd been staying at Sam's more often. When the frequency of the calls increased, she would turn off her landline ringer.

He was drunk of course and spewed out sour words as always. Still placing blame for things that she's never had control over. For things that made him drink for the past thirty-six years, soon to be thirty-seven years. She willed the tears in her eyes not to fall. She'd told herself over and over again that he wasn't worth it. That she knew the words he said weren't true, but that didn't mean they didn't hurt any less. In less than a minute she hung up.

In her room, only brightened by a streetlight outside, she contemplated going back to bed and dealing with the lingering thoughts of her drunken, emotionally abusive father. Instead she stood, slipped on her sneakers and grabbed her car keys.

She drove through an early morning drizzle, halfway across town to get back to his apartment. Seven hours after she left Sam's in a huff, after they'd screamed at each other until they were red in the face over something she can't even remember, she drove back. Fate smiled on her because someone just happened to be exiting the main doors as she scrambled in, clad only in a tank top and cotton striped pajama pants, which was definitely not fashionable for early spring.

She stood outside his apartment and waited. Undecided if waking him was a sign of defeat or weakness. If needing someone who loves you just as you are is a sign of imperfection. She didn't want to knock and have Natalie open the door. So she took out her now broken cell phone and typed out a text that told him she was outside the door. Then she waited another five minutes while she determined if the phrasing was all right and if she wanted to send the message.

She hit the enter button and her stomach did a nervous flip. The kind it hasn't done since she went on her first date with Doug Fischer when she was fifteen. She waited for a minute and then another and then her stomach started to hurt. In her inappropriate for the weather attire she started to sweat.

Rejected, she turned away from Sam's door and began to walk back towards the elevator. But then she heard a click behind her. Sam, with his hair all messy from tossing and turning was rubbing at his eyes with the palm of one hand while holding the door open with the other. "Jules, what are you doing?"

Then she realized how absolutely ridiculous she must look, and the fight with Sam and the phone call from her dad all bubbled emotions that she still keeps prisoner to the surface and before she could help it her lower lip started to tremble. "I—"

Sniper trained eyes caught the half twitch of her lip even when freshly roused from sleep. He pushed open the door. "Come inside."

Then they're back in his living room and in the dark. She felt her face and chest flush because she knew that her admission is a sign of weakness. It meant losing. She moved away from him towards the window as he sluggishly leaned against the counter, obviously waiting for an answer.

And it all came out in her patented ramble. "I'm sorry I know that it's late and I know that we were angry at each other but I really don't care anymore. I got a call from my dad and—"

He grabbed her before she could add anymore sentences to a single exhalation. Her arms folded against his chest and he rested his chin on the top of her head and they stood there in his kitchen while she caught her breath and began to relax.

Finally he spoke, "I'll get you a key. So if this happens again, you can get in."

"Sam—"

"Natalie has a key and I don't even like her."

She shook her head and laughed at him. He touched the bottom of her chin lightly and kissed her and she wondered what exactly she did to deserve him. "I'm sor—"

"You're worth it."

The exam room door swings open and older female nurse strides in. Her gray hair is done up neatly in a librarian style bun. She's about Jules' height but twice the weight and on her upturned nose sits a very thick pair of glasses.

"Hello. I'm Sandra." When she notices the state of Jules' face she exclaims, "Oh my goodness, look at you."

Jules nods politely, because it's taking all of her self-control not to blurt out the whole pregnancy thing right now.

"What happened?" Sandra picks up the filled out chart and lowers the glasses on her nose as she begins to read it. Jules doesn't get a chance to answer. The nurse must see that Jules is an officer from her chart because she blurts out, "My Lord. You were in that explosion I saw on the news?"

"Yeah, I hit my head off the inside of a car." She points to the general area of pain. She still hasn't seen a mirror. She really isn't that concerned about her looks.

The nurse frowns with her full face. "You poor, Dear. Well let's get that fixed up for you, okay?"

"Actually, I'm more concerned with something else." She doesn't know why this is so awkward. She has no idea who this woman is. She'll more than likely never see her again, but she targets her attention on the wall as she admits what she did that morning. "I took a pregnancy test this morning and it was positive."

Sandra grasps the chart to her chest. "Oh my, you must be going crazy."

"A little, yeah."

"Would you feel better if we did a quick ultrasound?" Sandra gestures to a white machine in the corner of the room. As she rolls it closer she clarifies, "Usually we do a blood or urine test to confirm a pregnancy, but we can use the ultrasound to rule out any other injuries."

Jules only nods. This too is not going how she imagined it. She pictured her and Sam waiting in a sterile room by themselves. Both so nervous and jittery that of course they would start fighting. He would bring up the fact that he knows she hates hospital gowns; she would bring up the fact that she hates him for getting her pregnant. Sam is going to be upset he missed this.

It's all happening so fast. Too fast. She's on her back on the gurney, the sheets wrinkling underneath her and her boots staining the end of the bed a lurid brown color. She lifts her shirt when Sandra tells her too. It's still untucked from Sam. So unprofessional. There's the jolt of cold gel on her stomach and the boom of her own heartbeat in her ears. She wishes Sam was here. She can't breathe she's so scared.

The wand presses into her stomach and she can't feel any immediate pain. She just hopes that the pressure doesn't set off any delayed injuries. Then along with the thump in her ears there's a weird noise that sounds like something from a radar or sonar. Sandra smiles softly at her and turns the screen so she can see it.

"Do you see that little flicker right there?"

Jules leans upright on her elbows and squints her eyes to get a better look. The screen is colored mostly gray that holds a ring of black that holds another grey oblong shape. But there is a definite flicker, like the flame on a candle wick. "Yeah I see it."

"That's your baby's heart beating. You're hearing it right now too."

The thump in her ear stops and all she can hear is the whoop of her baby's heartbeat as she watches the monitor. She's got tears again, but damn it, she's earned them this time. "It's okay?"

"It's perfectly healthy and happy." Sandra pauses screen and seems to be doing some measurements. "I'd say you're eight to nine weeks along, Dear."

The baby is fine and—wait. What. What. What? "What?"

"Yeah from the size of your little one, I'd say more towards nine."

"No, I had my period last month and—"

Sandra wears a knowing grin and shakes her head. "Breakthrough bleeding, Honey. It was lighter than usual right?"

Well they're always lighter than usual. It's not like she has the easiest job in the world. Or the easiest family. Or the easiest boyfriend. Stress comes to her easier than sleep does. "But—"

"That would put your due date at approximately sometime in March, but I can't give you a specific date." Oh my God. She only has seven months. She has less than seven months. She has six months and three weeks, if Sandra is right, to prepare for a baby. A baby she knows absolutely nothing about how to take care of. God, if she kept ignoring the symptoms she might be having this baby in a toilet bowl.

Sandra hands her a tissue to wipe her stomach off, and fiddles with the machine a little more. Then tells her to keep lying down so she can clean up her head wound, which apparently needs butterfly stitches. As Sandra cleans and stitches with adhesive strips she talks about how Jules will need to get some prenatal vitamins immediately. Then Sandra rambles about her first child and how he has two kids of his own and how they grow up so fast and asks if this is her first. Jules can only manage yes and no answers. How is she going to explain to Sam that not only is she pregnant with their firstborn, but she's nine weeks along? That's going to be one good fight.

Sandra places a bandage over the false sutures and grins down at her. "All done."

Jules sits up and tentatively places a fingertip near her temple where she can feel the adhesive strips straining to pull her skin together. She guesses that's where all the blood was coming from then.

"Your face will be pretty swollen for the next few days, but I can't offer you anything because of the little one." Sandra is making some notes on her chart and this whole moment seems ridiculously surreal. In an uncharacteristic fashion, Jules wishes that the day was over, that this bomber was dealt with and she and Sam could go home so they can talk. They desperately need to talk. "You can use Tylenol; just take it when you really need it because it can be harmful in large quantities."

"Thanks." She grins at Sandra like nothing's wrong. Because she's going to have to grin at every other person that she sees. This is still just her secret.

"Congratulations Sweetie."

She leaves the room wearing Sam's jacket again. It's her only form of protection. She doesn't have a bullet proof vest. She contemplates stealing Spike's. She wonders where the hell Sam put hers and banks this knowledge to bring up when he wants to name the baby something stupid or critiques her parenting methods.

Back at the chair she was sitting in only twenty minutes before, she wonders where the hell Spike is. She saw his leg wound. It wasn't anything to write home about, but knowing him he'll probably come out in a wheelchair just for the kicks. Her face stings, she still has a headache and she has an odd mixture of feeling really hungry and sick to her stomach at the same time.

"Jules?"

It's about fucking ti—"Steve?"

Her old time friend, ex-boyfriend, one time hostage situation partner and paramedic is standing just behind her. He's soaked from top to bottom; the hair that he usually has gelled up now hangs limply over his forehead. "I was going to ask how you are, but I can see that would be a stupid question."

Instinctively she crosses her arms over stomach, but with Sam's big coat, it just looks like she's crossing her arms. "I've had worse."

He reaches forward, long warm fingers touch the side of her face for only a brief moment to inspect the damage. "Looks like you took quite a conk."

She purses her lips and shrugs and with a nervous laugh, repeats, "I've had worse."

"Wait a minute; you weren't one of the cops injured on Keele, were you?"

Before she can answer, Sandra calls out to her from the hallway. Good old Sandra. Always there to save her from an awkward situation. The nurse is waving something in the air and as she approaches she's out of breath, but still as jolly as ever.

"Dear, you forgot your cell phone." Great the one that doesn't work, only has three numbers intact, and will be remembered by a welt on her thigh for the next week.

"Thanks." She forces a smile and takes the phone.

"Also you left before I could give you this." Sandra holds out a photo of exactly what they witnessed on the ultrasound monitor fifteen minutes ago. Different shades of gray that make up her baby.

Jules snatches the picture very quickly with chagrin, knowing that without a doubt Steve has seen it. She manages to force out a thanks between grinding teeth. Sandra grins again, completely oblivious to what she's done and leaves without saying another word.

Now she only hopes that Steve will just politely blow off the sit-"Jules, is that an ultrasound picture?"

What happened to being polite? They were never this close. "Umm."

"Congratulations." He grins and pulls her in for a bear hug in front of everyone in the waiting room. The only thing she can hope is that Spike is not watching. "You and Sam?"

"Yeah." Her response is drawn out and hesitant as she sends darting glances around the room making sure it's clear of anyone who knows anyone she knows.

"Wow." Steve shakes his head, his hand coming up to his chin in amazement as he examines her in a new light. "Sam must be over the moon."

He might be if he knew anything about it. "Yeah. The thing is we're trying to keep it quiet—"

"Oh," He nods like he's catching on and she knows that there's no way he is. "Waiting until the three month point, right?"

"Sure."

"Well, your secret's safe with me."

"Great. Thanks."

Steve checks his watch and pulls his face into a grimace. "Listen I've got to go. But congratulations."

"Thanks," she murmurs as Steve races out the door and back into the rain. She wonders how many more people will find out about Sam's baby before him.

* * *

><p><em>There <strong>will not<strong> be chapter next week as I'm moving back to University, which is a 3 hour drive alone. However the week after there should be a chapter. And oh to the boy, is it a chapter you don't want to miss. If you only read one chapter of one of my fanfictions this year, make it the next chapter. Makes it feel like you just wasted your time right? But it's worth it just for Sam's part alone. That's all you get, but feel free to speculate. _


	5. Anger Management

_A/N: Hey Guys. Sorry for the long time no update. But moving and blah, blah, blah. There will be grammar mistakes and blah, blah, blah. Onto to the important things:  
>1)There is only going to be one more chapter. And then I retire to Bermuda. Just kidding-I hate hot weather. Continuation is available in the format of a second story if preferred, but for the love of all that is holy, the chapters will be shorter.<br>2)Chapters will probably be shorter do to the cutting of flashback scenes because I'm blanking on ideas for them. Unless there are scenes you'd really like to see. Then review with them or PM me.  
>3)For those of you who are as obsessed with this story as I am, I created a twitter account for just FP fanfics so if you want to see the constant updates or my constant questions (like whether the heat can shoot a pregnant lady) feel free to stop by.<br>As always thank you for your patience, support and wonderful reviews and favorites. I feel blessed that you all enjoy the story so much._

_**ACTUALLY IMPORTANT AND YOU SHOULD READ:** Okay so I didn't mention this last chapter because I thought it would give away the amazing-ness of Sam's piece in this chapter. But** last chapter JULES' part happens BEFORE GREG'S chronologically**. So what I'm saying is Jules finished at the hospital before EMS arrived at Keele Street. If this hasn't spoiled the story for you yet, read on._

Domino Theory

Chapter 5

Anger Management

Water sprays up from the ambulance's wheels as the vehicle hydroplanes across the pooling puddles on Keele Street. It's easy to see why EMS took so long, the rain hasn't let up for a single second since it started pouring fifty minutes ago. The tires skitter to a stop; sliding the ambulance into a sideways spin almost into the overturned rig. Sam's glad he broke protocol and got Jules out of there.

A collision is avoided only by a few feet and when Sam lets out a breath of relief his chest feels heavy due to the weight of the rain on his clothes. He matches the Boss's swift stride as they approach the idling vehicle. It's interesting why EMS arrived now, if they didn't get the cancellation, or if it's merely protocol. It's something to keep his mind off the fact that it's been almost half an hour since he dropped Jules off at the hospital and he still hasn't gotten a text from her.

They're advancing on the ambulance from behind and when they're about five feet away, the passenger's door bursts open and Steve jumps out into the rain with no forethought or qualms. Sam grins because he's got nothing against Steve. A year ago, maybe he did. But now everything has worked out in Sam's favor so there's no reason to hold grudges, especially when they're in the business in they're in.

"Steve." Sarge greets him with a handshake in the middle of the storm like they've just met up casually on their day off. "Fashionably late, huh?"

"It's crazy today." Steve shakes his head and brown wet hair sticks to his forehead. He places his hands on his hips and narrows his eyes like he's staring into the sun. "It's the domino effect. One person does something crazy and everyone follows suit."

"I hear that." Sarge agrees with a knowing smile. Sam doesn't know why, but these two have always gotten along. He wonders if it's because if Jules was involved with Steve, then she and Sam wouldn't be a possibility and probation would remain intact. "Well, we've—"

Sarge's cell phone rings and the informal action makes him remember that his boss was supposed to go to his son's graduation today. Sam's been so preoccupied searching for propane tank chunks or waiting for his own cell phone to vibrate that it slipped his mind. There still might be time to catch the plane or a later one.

"Spike." Sarge greets into the phone. Before retreating back to the safety and dryness of the rig, Sarge gives Sam a nod to tell him to disperse of the paramedic.

Steve glances around him at the flipped vehicle. The rain streaming down his face and uniform apparently not bugging him nearly half as much as it was bugging Sam while he was doing a search and retrieve for propane tank pieces the size of peanuts. "I heard you guys took a few hits."

Sam nods, not really sure how much information has already been given out, but he's not keen on being the guy to give out more. "We took a few. Nothing too serious."

Steve chuckles ruefully and wears a tight smile. "So Jules did get caught up in that. She wouldn't tell me when I saw her."

Sam doesn't miss a beat. "You saw her?"

"Yeah at the hospital." Steve's expression turns quizzical and he crosses his arms.

"Is she—"

"She's fine. Just took a good hit to the head."

Sam laughs the tension out and suddenly the rain is refreshing. "She was supposed to text me."

"Oh. Her phone was broken."

"I kept telling her to put it in her back pocket."

"She'll never listen."

"Well—" Sam's about to tell him, that since the area was clear of civilians before the explosion, there are no other injuries. So Steve can move on to his next call. But the paramedic interrupts him.

"Oh, the baby's okay too."

There was a baby injured? He doesn't remember that? "What baby?"

Steve laughs and hits him lightly on the shoulder. "I know Jules told me you guys weren't telling anyone until three months, but I figured if she didn't call you yet, you might be going a little crazy."

Wait. What? The rain must be coming down heavier than before, because it sounds like Steve is saying things that he has no reason to be saying. Things that he has no right to be saying. Sam has a rush of what he thinks are all the emotions he's ever felt in his life and they all get stuck in the back of his throat. Luckily the army and SRU training help him whittle down his response to an uneven, "the baby?"

"It's fine. They gave her an ultrasound to be sure—" He's sure that Steve keeps talking, he's also sure that he doesn't hear a single syllable of what the paramedic says. All he can hear is the sound of his heart pound in his ears. Even the rain has become eerily silent.

Steve didn't just say what Sam thinks he did. There's just no way. Sam could come out and point blank ask if Jules is pregnant with their firstborn child, but learning that from a rare acquaintance who also happens to be your current girlfriend's ex-boyfriend is a little more than embarrassing. She's been acting weird lately, more so than usual, and she said she wanted to talk tonight. He figured that was about the future of their relationship, and how it has an expiry date since it would either end with Sarge finding them out, which coincidentally happened an hour ago, or with them breaking up the team, or with them breaking up.

"So how's impending fatherhood feel?"

There's warmth on the inside of his mouth and a strange tingle at the back of his throat because he gets a flash forward of him in five years, taxiing a faceless, genderless child from Jules' Santorini Sky apartment answering its questions on why its parents don't live together. Because apparently their jobs are more important than most things. What if she doesn't even want the baby? They've never discussed it. What if—

"Sam." Sarge is leaning half in, half out of the open driver's door. He's beckoning him back over to the rig. They're leaving.

"I've got to go," he barely mumbles as he turns his head down as he walks in to the wind and the rain.

"Sure." Steve nods, confused at Sam's unfriendly responses. "Congratulations," Steve calls out just before Sam is out of reach and it hits him like a rock to the back of the head.

In a daze, Sam manages to climb into the passenger's seat and nod when Sarge tells him that they're going to the hospital to pick up Jules and Spike. He doesn't really hear the words. They're distorted and distant because he's so unfocused. He realizes how dangerous this is, especially out in the field on an active case, especially today. He tries to separate fact from fiction. What could Steve know anyway?

Sam thinks that it's ridiculous. That this is his Jules and if she was pregnant, even if there was an inkling of a chance, she would've told him. He understands that there's a lot of stuff she's hesitant to share with him, a lot of memories sullying her past that makes it hard for her to be close with him. Not physically close, but close where it counts. But a baby. It's them, together. It's something that she can't hide and out of love and a baseline of respect she would've told him.

Sarge pulls the rig to the curb and it remains silent in the cabin as the rain plinks against the metal roof. A few feet away underneath an awning, Jules and Spike wait patiently to be picked up and everything is as he left it. But then he notices it. Only for a second. Maybe even for a millisecond because he inadvertently blinks and it's gone. That expression of terror she gets before she starts rambling and he needs to talk her down. Wide, sunken eyes and that fidgeting thing she does with her hands. Her fingers pull and twist on the edge of his coat as Spike mutedly talks to her. She merely nods, and Sam knows she's not hearing a word. When she notices the rig, her face wipes clean, a new false expression replaces the fear he saw moments ago and he knows that the smile pulling on the corners of her mouth is fake.

Sam's stomach does something odd. It feels weighty and empty. His head is light and the whole scene is surreal and humid. He reaches out a hand to touch the dashboard as an anchor and feels the usual bumpy cool plastic under his fingertips. Everything Steve said was true. Every single word Steve uttered was true. Jules is pregnant with their baby and didn't even bother to tell him.

He fights the raw feeling of needing to plunge his hand through the dashboard. Instead he grinds his teeth together, clenches his fists, his toes, any muscles in his body to dull the rage. Why didn't he see this?

Sarge is watches him with some interest from the corner of his eye. "Everything okay, Sam?"

"Everything's great." It's so obvious now. So beyond obvious. How long as she been acting weird. Not just normal Jules weird, but extra weird. In his mind he's accumulating all of the things she's been doing lately that could've tipped him off to her pregnancy.

Last night they lounged on his couch. The pizza box still lay half open, but mostly eaten. Jules wanted olives on it and then decided once he brought it home that olives were the most disgusting thing in the world. She also skipped the beer and drank water instead. He didn't care, more beer for him. It was a little after ten, and he started to feel the lull of the day, but for some odd reason, she was still wide awake.

She laid with her back against him, so he could watch TV and she could read in peace. He rested on his arm, eyelids growing heavy as sports highlights scrolled by on the bottom of the screen. His left arm fell across Jules' stomach. It was a way they sat all the time but the irony is hitting him like a metal bat to the gut. "What do you think Sarge will do when he finds out?"

Her question woke him from a half sleep and when he glanced down; she stared up at him alert and waited for an answer. Unconsciously, he tightened his grip on her while he rubbed the sleep from his eyes. "When Sarge finds out what?"

She turned over the book so the hardcover rested half against his arm; half against her sweatpant clad thighs. She sighed, and the action caused his arm to rise. "When Sarge finds out we're breaking probation."

Then he woke up. Pushed himself off the arm of the couch and sat up straight. "Why? Did he say something?"

"No." Jules placed her book on the coffee table. She still leaned with her back against him. She wore one of his shirts that landed a little above her hips. Her hands fidgeted with the bottom of the fabric and he knew that a ramble was coming. "It's just that either Sarge is going to find out, or we're going to break up. That's what's going to happen to us. I mean we could always switch teams, but then that would be a break up too right? This, the way things are right now, can't last forever."

Usually he was all about the comfort. A reassurance here, a calming whisper there. But it seemed like Jules was flying off the deep end every other day now. He figured if they were going to have a fight about it, which they likely were, it would be better to do it when Natalie wasn't here. Plus as much as he wanted to talk about their relationship, he did not want to end it, and anything that could steer the conversation away from that direction was a help.

"What's with you lately?"

"What do you mean?" She craned her neck, but he refused move.

He placed his right hand on her forehead and felt for a fever partially in jest. "Are you feeling okay?"

She swatted his hand away and when she moved to leave the couch like he knew she would, he tightened his grip around her and kept her in place, then brought up his legs so she was practically lying on top of him.

"Sam." Her voice held a warning.

"Talk to me." He held both of her hands in his. He knew she could easily get out of the position and if she wanted out, he'd let her.

Instead she sighed and straightened so she sat flat in his lap. "You're the one who won't talk to me."

"You've just been having more freak-outs than usual." He reached up and tucked one of her longer bangs behind her ear and sighed. She was so beautiful, and she made one of his shirts, definitely something that had no feminine charm, one of the sexiest things in the world. Out of habit his hand rested on her thigh, the soft cloth of the sweatpants enticed him and he had not forgotten that it had been almost a week since they'd last had sex. Sharing a two bedroom apartment with your secret girlfriend and your sister had definite throwbacks to being in high school.

"Sam." She leaned forward so her face was inches from his, and then rolled her hips against his. "I can feel you not listening to me."

He placed his hands on her hips, partly to stop her from moving more, and partly so he could begin to fold up the edge of his shirt on her. "What do you want me to say other than, 'We'll deal with it when it happens?'"

She didn't smile, but she didn't move off of him. Since neither was willing to say at the moment that they were willing to leave their job for the other, it was a concession they had to make. It was a problem they would have to deal with when it happened. Last time they dated, Sam was hesitant about leaving the team. He was still the rookie. Team One had prestige and anywhere else he went would've been a downgrade. He might have considered leaving if Jules considered it as well, but the thought didn't even occur to her. This time around, it didn't matter how she felt, if that's what they had to do to stay together, he would leave. He would move to a different team. He'd get a different job.

Needless to say the shirt came off, and those pants and every other piece of clothing landed noiselessly over the back of the couch. Later the air conditioning kicked on and dried the layer of sweat on his skin and pasted Jules thighs to the leather couch that she hated so much.

His fingers absently dragged through her hair and she questioned, "Are you happy?"

Her voice was muffled because she rested against his bare chest. The intimacy they had made him feel lighthearted and childish. Even if she was stuck in a constant state of worry, he could have some fun with it. "Right now or in general?"

She sighed and he felt her hot breath on his chest. The action wasn't from irritation or anger, but from exhaustion. When she didn't make a move to leave the room in a huff or a slam of the bedroom door, he bowed his head and kissed the crown of hers. "I love you Jules. You know that. As long as I'm with you, I'm happy."

"I love you too."

The back door of the rig clicks open and a cool gust of wind circulates through the stuffy interior. Outside the rain still hasn't let up and the sound of the droplets hitting the pavement is reminiscent of waves on a beach. He wanted to take Jules away for Christmas; it was going to be a surprise. He was thinking Sydney. He's never been and it would've been nice to go with her. Just lie on the beach someplace where the rules didn't apply. Now he doesn't want to think about tomorrow let alone three months from now.

"You're leg isn't even that bad," she's protesting as Spike's taking his time crawling into the back seat. Sam watches the action from the rearview mirror, not really sure how to act, how to react around Jules.

"I just had a rather hasty nurse basically stitch her initials into my leg," Spike answers as he collapses into the seat behind Sarge. Rivers of water flow down his shoulders and into the backseat of the rig as Jules climbs in.

Her face is still swollen and freshly bruised purple and yellows that don't mix well together. It reminds him of the bruise the bullet hole left on her body; it was still there when she was released from the hospital. The blood is gone from her face, and her temple has a bandage on it where the gash has been sutured together. The thing is, what he should feel, what he usually feels, the intense need to comfort, the guilt, the fear that she isn't okay is missing when it should be intensified.

He's too weary of dealing with her secrecy, especially when their supposed to be in a relationship together, especially when those secrets revolve around a life that they created together. It's disheartening; he can't even think about the situation that they're in anymore, because it's making him so enraged. He can't think about what he would like to happen, because he can't honestly see anything happening right now. The only thing he can think about is when would Jules have told him she was pregnant if he didn't find out on his own?

She catches him watching her in the mirror and gives him a weak, fake smile. He doesn't smile back. Doesn't even try to hide it. Instead he directs his eyes out the windshield. He hears her slam to door, not hard, just a normal car door closing. Maybe she thinks he's being inconspicuous for Spike's sake, but they have little signals that they've adapted for situations like this one. Little signals that he's not using.

"-And the nurse just kept pulling the thing through my leg."

Sarge chuckles to himself and pulls the rig away from the curb and back out onto the street. The wipers squeak across the windshield because something is caught underneath the blade and Spike continues to tell every aspect about his abrupt hospital sojourn in detail. When Sam chances another glance up, Jules is looking out the side window and all he can think is he's never been so infuriated with someone in his life.

* * *

><p>Spike doesn't really realize that he's in the rig and okay until the vehicle hits a rather nasty dip in the road that makes him tense the muscles in his recently stitched leg. He still can't believe he made it out of that hospital alive. His injury isn't really that bad, he's sort of playing it up for laughs, but he can't get his mind off the nurse who willingly entered her number into his phone.<p>

Glancing down at his cell phone, still flaunting a garish crack halfway through the screen, he stares at the number she gave him. Seven digits that will let him contact her if he chooses to do so. The ball is in his court whether to pursue her. Or he can delete the number. Pretend it never happened and focus on Natalie.

Is Natalie even worth focusing on? She's younger than him. Not frowned upon younger than him, but still young enough that she likes going out to loud noisy clubs like the one they frequented last night, while he would prefer higher class jazz type bars or places like the Goose. Man, it's been months since he's been there. He understands relationships are give and take, and he can't expect whoever he's with to automatically like his pastimes, but what are the odds of coming to a compromise with Natalie?

"How many stitches did you actually get Spike?"

He catches the Boss's eyes in the rearview mirror and can see mirth in them, which is good. It's what he was going for. It's what he's always going for. Everyone is too damn serious. They do have a serious job. There are times when beads of sweat the size of large marbles roll over his brow while he stares down the racing numbers on a clock that's going to detonate a city block. It's not all like that though. It doesn't all have to be serious all the time.

"The nurse never told me, but I counted ten." Spike fumbles with his phone, figuring that he shouldn't be doing personal things on the job. The sides of the devices slip from his fingers and it tumbles to the floor landing atop the rubber grooves cut on the floor mat and just clear of the accumulating water.

"Ten." The Boss chortles and shakes his head. Sam and Jules don't respond and Spike wonders if something happened with them. No. When could something have happened? Jules was complaining that her phone broke and that some of the keys were imbedded in her skin. They wouldn't have had a chance to talk yet. Is this them relieved? Because they're still intimidating.

"It's double digits." Waves of red and yellow roll over the phone screen from his thumb pressing into the broken parts. He finally regains a steady hold on the thing, but in his blunders he's inadvertently opened a picture file.

"Yeah well, lucky for you I've got someone bringing in the truck. You're both on intel until we catch this guy and then you're off until Monday."

"That's fine, the Toronto nightlife loves me and I haven't had a Friday off in a long time."

Turning his phone the right way around, the photo that he accidentally opened is of himself and Natalie last night. His stomach does a nervous flip because Sam is less than three feet away and has sniper's eyes. But really Spike can barely see the picture and if Sam can make it out, he deserves to go berserker in the rig.

He tries to ignore the drunken eyes half closed, mouth half open expression he has and focuses on her face. Perfectly symmetrical, something the line on the screen helps him figure out. Eyes narrow, not drunk, but sultry. And those lips. God he loves her lips. Soft and full and they taste like things you buy in a bakery.

A week ago he got a phone call; it was pretty late, nearing midnight. He laid on his bed, above the sheets because it was too damn hot to be under them and his parents were too old fashioned to understand the benefits of air conditioning. The TV flickered some infomercial when his cell phone sprang to life on the night stand.

Spike's eyes were open and he had that jolt of panic before the first ring, a song that Lew put on his phone when they were in Ocho Rios, finished playing through. He sat up in the bed and was careful not to knock the end table. It had been his Poppy's and the back leg was still in place on a prayer. His hand shot out, grabbed his then undamaged phone, and answered it without a hint of fatigue. He assumed it was work.

"Hello." He figured he'd hear the Boss's remorseful voice on the other end of the line telling him that they got called in because of some disaster. It's happened before more times than he can count. It'll happen again.

"Hi, this is Spike. Right?"

"Umm." He paused and rubbed at the back of his neck. "Yeah?"

"It's Natalie."

Natalie. Natalie? Who the hell is Natalie? He'd met a woman at a bar a few nights ago but she definitely wasn't a Natalie. She was a Kelsey or a Casey or even a Katie. Natalie he would've remembered. "Okay?"

"Sam's sister?"

"Oh." He laughed but stopped when he realized that Sam's baby sister was phoning him at close to midnight. "Sam's not here."

"I don't care where Sam is."

"Then why are you calling?"

"Well, I've been thinking about you Spike."

What? Why would she be thinking about him? He didn't do anything to her. Did Sam tell her something. Oh God, did Sam tell her the story of what he and Lew did when Sam first started and they took his clothes and- He didn't know what happened but all of that SRU coolness dissipated from his body and he blurted out, "Why?"

She giggled into the other end of the phone and he just remembered meeting her about two weeks earlier. Sam's little sister who flirted with him in front of Sam. Sam who came up to him afterwards with furrowed eyebrows and a wagging index finger. "I don't know. You're interesting, I guess."

"Oh."

"Anyways, I was wondering if you'd want to go out sometime."

"Out, like—"

"On a date. You don't have a girlfriend right?"

"No, not at the moment." He played it cool and kept his voice down so he didn't wake up his parents.

"So do you want to go out sometime?"

He thought about Sam and about the team and about the implications his actions could have if anything happened between him and Natalie. And then he thought of Lew, who told him that everything would be okay, and to go out and live life. "Yeah, I'd like that a lot."

"Great. This week's no good for me, but I'll call you next week."

Andy really has way more in common with him. They're both from religious Italian families as he found out by following her down the hallway in a zombie lurch and uttering incomprehensible syllables until she elaborated on her personal situation. They probably grew up doing the same things and eating the same meals. Hell, she can probably cook the lasagna that he's grown so disgusted with. Her mom probably does her laundry and pressures her to get married and her father, well, he's probably not sick. It's no contest to which girl his parents would approve of more.

And he thinks that's why he likes Natalie. She doesn't come from the same type of family as him, but was immediately accepting of his situation. That's only happened a handful of times before in his entire life. She doesn't have a degree or a job and in a way he's jealous. She has all this freedom that he's never had. Even when he went to University it was in Toronto and he lived at the same house he lives in now, in the same room, with the same squeak in the hallway and the same lasagna.

"So you both understand then that you're annexed to the truck?" The Boss reiterates probably for Jules' sake because if there's a way, she'll end up out of the truck and in the middle of the skirmish.

Jules opens her mouth for a moment and Spike thinks that she's actually going to try and protest a direct order when they all know she was knocked out cold. It's going to be entertaining to see if Sarge will let her drive home tonight and how she and Sam will tiptoe around it. In a blatantly sarcastic tone she promises, "Under no circumstance will I leave the van."

The boss laughs again because sometimes Jules' sharp tone can produce a note or two of humor. From the corner of his eye he catches the stern head shake that Sam gives when she speaks. Spike turns away, feeling semi-awkward because he can tell that something is off between the two of them, and when he looks down Natalie is staring back at him. He turns off his phone, blackening the screen. He doesn't want to exacerbate things.

"Go ahead, Eddy." The Boss suddenly says and for a minute Spike thinks he's got a little residual brain damage from cracking his face off the steering wheel like a coconut. But then he remembers that the Boss and Sam still have active comm. links. Above that, Ed and Wordy are active and in the field trying to find the guy who blew him up earlier.

The Boss sighs and tries to bring his hand to his face. The action is stunted however, because he's still driving so it turns into a twitch. "You should have told me before, Eddy."

Sam shakes his head again and presses his lips together like he's trying very hard not to say something he might regret.

Spike leans forward in his seat, the movement makes the rainwater that's pooled in the ripples in his jacket flow over the side of the chair and onto the floor. His shoes still squeak and he can feel the seams coming apart. "What's going on?"

"Ed and Wordy split up so they could evacuate both construction sites before the next bomb goes off at 10:30."

"So what? Now we have to make two stops?" Jules joins the conversation and they all keep low voices so they don't disturb the Boss or his dialogue with Ed.

"Well there's that, and the fact that Wordy is by himself now."

"Is Wordy hurt?" Spike immediately feels stupid for asking the question because both Sam and Jules have this expression like he should know better.

"Wordy's sick, remember?" Sam's voice is a little bit more forceful than a normal whisper.

"So, Wordy is still a member of Team One. He has the same job responsibilities as the rest of us," Jules counters and Spike immediately knows that this is not going to be good.

"Jules, he has Parkinson's. You don't give a shaky finger a trigger to pull."

"He's also been showing no symptoms since he told us he was sick."

"You think he's fine because you think you're fine to be in the field in your condition."

"What condition? I have a mild concussion."

"Okay you know what?" Spike waves his hands getting their attention because if he doesn't stop the altercation it will escalate until the sonic boom of their voices explode this rig too. "I liked it better when I couldn't hear."

He sits back in his seat, on the cushion that's permeated with water. It's cold and it seeps back into the fabric on his pants but he feels a very familiar prick and can't help but grin. Natalie's earring is still in his back pocket after everything that's happened today. It's has the same type of shock value like when artifacts from the Titanic are recovered.

Spike knows that there's tension between Wordy and Ed, the same as there is with Sam and Jules, but he doesn't understand why. Wordy can still do his job. He still does it well. Once when Spike was running late he saw Wordy in the locker room after the shift when he must've thought that he was alone. He looked tired, worn out, but not sick. Three kids will do that. It wasn't his place to say anything, so he made a bunch of noise and stumbled in like an idiot. Wordy smiled at him and they had a nice conversation. That's how Wordy is. "Wordy's fine. If he needed our help, he'd ask us for it. If he didn't feel safe doing the job, he wouldn't do it."

* * *

><p>Ed's sitting in the driver's seat of the rig, one hand holding the comm. link closer to his ear so he can hear Greg reel him out over the thunder crashing directly overhead. With his other hand his fingers rhythmically tap against the side of the steering wheel waiting for his penalty period to be over. "Look Greg, I know I should've said something, but it just happened."<p>

It didn't just happen. He and Wordy actually hit a boiling point after nineteen years. It was one final miniscule disagreement of 'Ed, let's wait' versus 'Wordy, we don't have the time' that broke the camel's back. Then like any good fight in any well rooted relationship, it regurgitated the countless other arguments they'd ever had from today and ended with the day Ed found out Wordy didn't take his Timmy's coffee as a double double.

His voice started to rise and to his surprise, so did Wordy's. Finally when they arrived at the first active area on Jane Street, Wordy stepped out of the rig. The door slammed behind him. Ed lowered the window and his friend demanded, "Go Ed."

"Wordy, you know no team divisions smaller than two people."

"That's not why you're not leaving."

And it was true. If he had been with Sam, or Spike, or Jules, then the rig would've already been in reverse. Of course it's because his friend is sick. It was because Wordy had Parkinson's and a holstered gun. Not to mention it was unsafe for him to be anywhere near explosives. Wordy no longer has the strong structure that he offered Team One a year ago.

Ed knows this resentment is still the fallout from being left in the dark for so long. He hates to admit it, but he treated Sophie the same way for a few days after he found out that she was pregnant with Izzy. Couldn't she have just told him? Would that have been so hard? When she was pregnant with Clark they went to the doctor's office together to get the blood work done and then pretended not to notice when three days dragged by before they got the results.

Wordy must have known that he was sick and kept it to himself. He told the Boss for concern for the team's safety or maybe even some shred of respect. But Ed was left in the dark to use their nineteen year friendship as kindle. Part of him thinks that he treats Wordy differently because the man should know better too. He's sick, he shouldn't be working. Hell, he was going to quit the team after taking two bullets in the arm, but that was more to be with Izzy.

"I'm not leaving because it's against protocol."

Wordy pursed his lips and shook his head. His gentle demeanor returned and above them lightning flashed in the sky. "That didn't stop you from leaving Spike and Jules earlier today."

It's not really fighting dirty. Wordy has three daughters. He is incapable of fighting dirty. It's fighting truthfully. Ed realizes that he's starting to take advantage of his authority. It was just automatically returned with his team leader position when he came back after Izzy was born. He didn't have to earn again. He even challenged Sam to shootout, but Sam just grinned and waved him off, like that was how it was supposed to be.

"Ed, just go. Tell them I was the one who left. I don't care anymore." Wordy turned his back towards the rig and in a few seconds the white 'police' scrawled across the back of his coat disappeared into the falling rain.

"Ed, I don't know what to say to you."

He knows that Greg is keeping his wits because the rest of the team is in the same vehicle, if not patched into the same link. Ed checks the clock in the dash and it reads 10:07. He has less than half an hour to clear out any construction workers who still at the site despite Winnie calling ahead and warning them. He also has to set up a post among the girders to watch for anyone approaching the area. If he's lucky he'll be able to stop them before they set up the device.

"I don't know what to tell you Greg." His voice is verging on insolent and for the first time he's noticing it. He thinks about what he could be doing instead. Lying on the living room floor with Izzy on his chest. Running on the treadmill in her room while she takes a nap. Teaching Clark how to parallel park in a thunderstorm.

"Later you're going to have to tell me in great detail what happened." Greg's tone is threatening and Ed knows that he's going to have to sit through one of those stupid meetings where Greg and the high ups go over his actions and how they can be improved by just being a team player.

"Look Boss, I—"

"I don't care. We're going to Wordy and then I'll send Sam over for your backup. Never do this again, Ed."

"Understood."

He slams the door to the rig and pretends that the rain doesn't bother him. So he's going to get written up, twice. He'll take the fall for Wordy, because that's what friends do, and it's probably his fault anyway for holding the attitude he did all morning. He just remembers that stupid truck driving past him this morning and he thinks that if Izzy wasn't in the backseat he could've stopped the explosion before it happened. Spike and Jules would be fine and Greg would be on a slightly delayed plane to Dallas.

Then he feels guilty because once again he's putting his family second. It's not Izzy's fault that his job is so demanding or that Sophie sporadically decided to have a career change after giving birth. His family is the excuse he gives at work and work is the excuse he gives at home, but really he hasn't been giving his all to either. The more Ed thinks about it, he should relinquish the Team Leader position, at least until he can get his head back into the game. Besides Sam doesn't have half of the responsibilities he has.

Ed walks through the rain, a little calmer and more focused because he's sure that when he and Greg talk later he's going to request for a diminished role in the team. His boots begin to grow heavy from dragging clumps of mud and he shakes his feet as he passes by some generic signs warning of the upcoming construction.

The dirt path changes to concrete covered in a thick layer of dust due to the construction. The path widens until it's completely open to what looks like the foundation for the basement of a future building. Rusted colored scaffolding stands four stories high. The girders and cement that make up the skeleton are only three stories high. There are two cranes and a cement mixer that appear frozen in the middle of movement. Bomb threats have that effect on machinery; people turn them off in mid function.

The square expanse is empty and silent as it pools with water in the dim floodlights. Ed places an arm to his brow and gives the area another visual sweep. Nothing seems out of place and there are no footprints through the dirt that indicate that someone came from this direction to place a bomb. "Boss. The site is clear. Workers are evacuated."

"Good. We're a minute out from Wordy. Sam should be there in five."

"Copy that."

He waits a few more seconds, keeping his breathing soft so that he can hear any movements over the water droplets hitting against the metal racking. He takes a precarious step out onto the untouched concrete and stalks slowly around the foundation. His hand rests on the handle of his glock because in his self ruminations he forgot to retrieve his rifle from the back of the rig.

When he's sure the area is completely clear he turns his back. He needs to find cover, somewhere to hide that he has access to both the construction site and the parking area so that he can see if anyone approaches. The scaffolding might work if it was higher, but four stories in this kind of weather might not do him any favors. It's also a gamble because he'll not only be exposed to the weather but also the bomber. The machinery might work if he catches the bomber in the site, but he'll have to be blind in the parking lot.

He picks up speed because it's 10:15 and he needs to get to the rig, get his rifle and a few necessary items and find his vantage point. The concrete quickly gives away to the mud again and just before he exits the tunneled passageway into the rain, an unidentified vehicle pulls into the parking lot.

* * *

><p>Wordy stands at the periphery line where the egress to the construction site ends and the rain begins. The Boss informed that he and the rest of the team, minus Ed, would be there in less than a minute. Singlehandedly Wordy had managed to clean the site of any civilians or workers and found no suspicious devices that looked anything like four propane tanks taped together. Pretty good for a guy that they won't let handle gun or a steering wheel or even a shield now.<p>

A small fraction of him was nervous because before Ed left, he didn't have the chance to retrieve any supplies from the back of the rig, including his assault rifle. That currently leaves him with only a glock for protection. When Wordy glances down to his hands, his right hand is bouncing on its own accord.

Wordy takes in a deep breath of cool air and tries to calm down, tries to remember his therapy. All those relaxation techniques and mediation rituals that he's spent the last few months learning. But all that keeps coming up is that Ally has a doctor's appointment on Tuesday and he's going to have to see Lilly's principal and teacher Monday instead of today and poor Maggie never gets any attention. Since he was diagnosed it's become a lot harder to separate his home life from his work life. He loves Shel and the girls, but when he's trying to remember tactics and remembers Lilly's shoe size instead it's a little confusing.

When he watches his right hand again, it's just his pinkie that's jumping now. It's always been his pinkie. It's how he knew that something was wrong.

He stayed home with the girls a few months ago so that Shelley could have a night out with her friends. It was after supper and his daughters wanted to play something before bedtime. Lilly wanted to dress up, Ally wanted something to eat and Maggie clung to his pant leg with one hand and twirled her hair with the other.

They ended up having a tea party with lemonade that ended up getting all over the hardwood floors in the living room that Shelley keeps spotless. He spent most of the time on his hands and knees mopping up sticky juice from the ground while Lilly insisted her siblings act more regal. Maggie looked worried and Ally wanted to be a chicken which of course erupted the living room into a royal rumble with more spilt lemonade and a few shed tears.

After he got them all separated, Maggie clung to his side as he sat on the couch and Ally cried in his lap. "Lilly," He laughed and pulled the overturned tea cup from out of Ally's hair. "What happened?"

His oldest daughter crossed her arms in a frump and the oversized hat she wore fell over her eyes. "They're not drinking the tea right."

He reached forward and took her hat off. "Did you show them how?"

"They won't watch. Maggie just sits there and Ally says she's a chicken."

"I a chicken." Ally simply shrugged.

"Okay." He sat Ally on one knee and with the other arm reached back and grabbed Maggie by the waist. She giggled as he flipped her around and sat her on his other knee. "Show me then."

Lilly grinned brightly and pulled the sunhat back onto her head. "Okay, you have to hold the cup like this." She took her tiny hand and wrapped it around the handle of the cup and held it up so all three of them could view it. "See, but then if you're a lady you stick out your pinkie finger."

"Oh," he exclaimed as if she'd enlightened him on the ways of the world. He reached forward and grabbed an empty cup for each of the daughters in his lap. They looked at the cup, looked at him and then imitated their sister.

"There." Lilly clapped her hands together in delight and the large beaded bracelets she wore clacked together. "Now Daddy, you try."

She handed him a cup that fit in the palm of his hand and he accepted it graciously. His forefinger and thumb barely met in the space between the handle and cup but he managed to hold it and even stuck his pinkie out to make the girls laugh. But then his pinkie started to twitch and then the twitch grew into a full blown spasm that he couldn't control and the lemonade was all over his pant leg and the floor.

"Daddy." Lilly put her hands on her hips and shook her head at him in disappointment. "You spilt it."

"Sorry," he mumbled as the cup swayed back and forth on the floor. His pinkie continued to dance for the next few days, but he wrote it off as too much caffeine.

Two headlights appear suffocating under the weight of the rainfall. The light crawls across the ground towards his feet and then shines on him for a moment and he waves, using his right hand out of habit. Forcefully, he pulls it down by his side to hide it.

While the rig is parking a few more vehicles begin to appear in the lot. There are a few cop cars, probably brought on to help contain the area. Then there's the truck from headquarters and he knows that Spike and Jules are going to have fun being stuck in there all day. He still feels the tickles running through his fingers. While the team exits the rig, he wonders if one day he'll even be able to do intel in the truck.

"Wordy." The Boss runs through the rain to greet him. He's wearing a sympathetic smile. Either the Boss assumes that Ed and Wordy splitting up was purely Ed's idea, or that the pressure of being left alone to do his job is too much for Wordy in his current condition. "What do we have?"

"Area is clear and contained. No one in or out since I did the last sweep two minutes ago." Just to be safe he checks over his shoulder and the same faintly lit tunnel into the site greets him. The action also lets him guard his right arm.

Behind the Sarge, Jules appears in the rain. She juts a thumb back to the van, "Spike's already in the truck. Sam took a few things and left with one of the squad cars to go meet Ed."

There's a large gust of wind that stirs up the rain, so she steps closer to the protection of the egress. That's when he really gets to see her injury. The skin on the right side of her face from her temple to her chin is swollen so much that her eye can hardly open anymore.

"Oh Jules." He reaches a hand forward, but again it's his right hand. He cancels the gesture and hope that she takes it as not wanting to make her feel embarrassed.

She's already waving him off anyway. "It's fine. You should see Spike's leg though."

The Boss sighs and tips the front of his hat so he can see better. "Jules, I thought you said you weren't going to leave the truck?"

"I didn't get there yet."

"Go."

Greg turns his back, but Wordy watches her leave through the rain and knows that something's wrong. "You were a little harsh don't you think?"

"Wordy, Buddy." He adjusts his comm. link probably waiting for Ed or Sam to call in with more details from the second location. Then he begins to walk down the egress into the site. "If you only knew what I had to put up with today."

"So let's talk about it. We haven't had a debriefing since—"

Greg chuckles sardonically and over his shoulder explains, "The reason we don't have them is because they turn into cage matches."

Wordy wants to say that it's because they're supposed to have an impartial mediator. But Greg's not impartial. Because he's part of the team, he has an opinion on what happened during the hot call and obvious sides are taken. It always ends up bad when Ed, Sam or Jules take opposing views. They end up staying after the shift, end up yelling and saying things that he thinks they regret. Wordy ends up missing the girls' bedtimes.

Of course being Wordy, he doesn't say this. They've used an impartial mediator before and they all know how well that turned out. It's been absolute chaos. They're supposed to be perfect but Sarge keeps a member on the team with Parkinson's? That's definitely going to cost the team come review time. Ed actually told Wordy once when they were mid squabble that the Team voted whether he should stay or not. It was three to two. That kind of hurt because he knew what side Ed was on.

He stops walking beside Sarge and they stand in silence as they peer out into the empty foundation. Four flood lights clearly illuminate the area and all the machines have been docked or driven further down the site to avoid giving the bomber a target. With the truck out front along with two police cruisers, it's beginning to look like they might scare away their bomber.

"Maybe—" Wordy begins, but the comm. link hisses to life.

"Boss." It's Ed and for once he sounds like he's out of breath.

"Talk to me, Eddy."

"I got visuals on the bomber."

* * *

><p>Greg turns on the spot while Ed feeds him and the others information through the comm. link. The heels of his boots scuff against the ground and kick up a small dust cloud as he moves in long strides down the egress.<p>

"I've got a red jeep in the parking lot. I can't get a clear visual of the license plate through the rain though."

His pace slows a bit as he reaches the water cascading down over the mouth of the walkway. "But there's no proof that they're our bomber yet?"

"It's 10:20 Boss and the site is clear. Who else is going to—"

"News?" Wordy interrupts he's peering out into the rain probably looking for any unmarked vehicles at their site. But only two police cruisers with a few poncho clad officers patrolling the area remain besides the truck. "Maybe it's just another worker who didn't get the memo?"

"I'll check the security cameras in the area." Spike suggests. "Maybe I can get a clear view of the license plate or driver."

"Sam, tell your driver to turn off the siren and the lights so you don't spook them if they are the bomber." Greg demands with a swift exhalation as he once again, braves the heavy rain. He can hear Wordy's crunching footsteps right behind him. "Ed, how prepared are you to handle this?"

There's a brief pause on the other side of the link and for a second Greg wonders if the communication went down because of the storm. But he knows Ed better than that and when he finally speaks his tone is hesitant with unease. "All my equipment is in the rig that they've parked beside. I just have my glock."

Greg tries to ignore the fact that none of this would have happened if the team would've played by the rules that have been in place since day one. If Ed and Wordy didn't split up, if Sam didn't take the extra time to take Spike and Jules to the hospital, if Ed hadn't ignored the 'first to respond' rule. Maybe if everyone was actually on time that morning they could have done an actual pre-shift without the personal drama and no one would've been near The Junction when the bomb went off. Instead he doesn't hold personal grudges, or logical reasons as to why he's not at the airport right now. "Sam. ETA?"

"I got them to drop me off at the corner so I could go in stealth."

"Okay." Greg stops mid-step. Water leaks out of the soles of his shoes and he washes a hand over his face. "Until I'm at the scene I want to know every move. Do you both understand?"

"Copy."

"Copy."

These four hours that they've been on duty seems like an eternity. This call should have been easy. It would have almost been routine if they received it six months ago before Toth. Instead now they scurry about in chaos because none of them can focus. The team argues constantly about everything, which is the reason he's stopped having in-depth debriefings at the end of shifts unless someone specifically requests it.

They used to sit around the conference table, order take out and discuss in detail what happened, how they could better the entry times, or the responses from subjects. Whether lethal force was necessary or not. They would add in any details that the transcripts failed to pick up and that's what made them such a good team, because every corner was covered and it was covered well.

It's been two weeks since they've had a genuine debriefing and it's because he's tired of dealing with the antics a simple roundtable entails. By the end of the shift everyone is exhausted and disinterested in each other that they become bitter and almost spiteful. It doesn't help that Team One is full of the most stubborn people he's met in his life and when they want to argue, they'll argue all night long if he doesn't stop it.

It was two Thursdays ago, on balmy August night. The table was littered with file folders and copies of the transcript because this case was definitely one Toth was going to mention on his return. Greg remembered that their probation period was drawing dangerously close to an end. He sat at the empty table, waited for the rest of the team to arrive, and wondered if the team would be able to survive another round against Toth.

Slowly team members began to filter in and the empty seats around the table filled up. Each one glanced with tired eyes at the transcript that they'd all just acted out. There were always different reactions, but the main problem this time was if lethal force was necessary. The subject was an eighteen-year-old kid. No one was happy about the outcome.

"'8:03pm- Subject responding to negotiations.' His gun was down." Jules read from off the page.

"Yeah," Ed glanced at Greg and almost rolled his eyes. "And then it was back up."

"Wordy was there." She pointed to Wordy across the table. "He had the shield—"

"And if Wordy twitches at the wrong time—"

"Are you kidding me?" Wordy groaned into his hand. This was a common theme at all the regular debriefings. How Wordy could have screwed up the negotiations.

Sam shook his head and downcast his eyes onto the table. "Shields are flawed, Jules."

"So it's worth killing an eighteen-year-old kid, because shields are flawed?"

"You won't let me use a gun. You won't let me drive a car. Now you won't let me hold the damn shield?"

"I'm just saying that if you're using something that can potentially save a team member's life—"

"He was schizophrenic. He could've started shooting at any second."

"And we all know the job has inherent risks."

"If you want me to quit Ed, just say it."

"I shouldn't have to; you should have enough respect for your teammate's life that you do it yourself."

"You've risked enough."

"That was four years ago, let it go."

"Hey. Hey." Greg slammed a balled fist down onto the table which gave it a permanent limp. Something he did not admit to any of the other teams.

He waited until they were calm and quiet before he continued, "Arguing with each other isn't going to get us anywhere and in case you haven't noticed, you've all strayed off topic." He gave a cautious glance to Ed who had become l a bully to Wordy in the last few months since finding out about his illness. And then one to Sam and Jules, who he had an inkling were not quite sticking to their probation rules.

"There's nothing else to talk about," Ed stated matter-of-factly as he crossed his arms and relaxed back in the chair. "We tried negotiations. They worked for awhile until the kid started having another psychotic episode. He escalated. We used lethal force."

Greg sighed. They had been on shift over twelve hours by the time they deployed lethal force. Jules wanted to continue with the negotiation. Wordy agreed that it was plausible, but Ed said the gun was in the air which Sam seconded. The subject began to pace and Sam, Sierra 1 lost the shot at which point Ed became the kill shot. Less than a minute after that the boy was dead. While Jules was saying that she could get the boy back, and as he waved the gun in the air Greg gave the order. Ed didn't hesitate.

"Spike what do you think?" He leaned on his hand and turned to Spike who remained beside him in the truck for the majority of the afternoon. They had both been fed information via cameras and audio. Neither had a firsthand account of the situation or death.

Spike drew his hand away from his mouth. To someone who didn't know him that well it may seem as if he were daydreaming or on the verge of falling asleep, but Greg knew he would have something important to say. "I think that an eighteen-year-old kid is dead. I think that he had no hostages and a history of mental illness and that we could've helped him."

Greg nodded. He clasped his hands together and placed them on the table. "I think you're right."

At the entrance to the parking lot Greg greets the two officers who patrol the construction site. They stand wearing navy plastic ponchos that don't reflect the light and it can't be safe for them to be immobile in the dark. "My team is heading over to Runnymede. Keep the area locked down and report in any suspicious activity."

They nod and he smiles because that's how it should be. He asks them to do something and they do it. That's what having authority is supposed to give him. Instead he has to deal with back talk and questioning and Ed doing what he wants and Sam worrying about Jules and Jules not being in the truck and Wordy having a spasm.

Walking back to Wordy standing stationary outside the truck, Greg notices the disappointed look on the man's face and realizes that during his small trek to the end of the lot, Ed and Sam have been arguing about placement and the best area to do the negotiation in.

"Yeah, let's do it in construction site. That way if the bomb goes off, we can have another Keele Street."

"We can't do it in the lot because I have zero visibility out here. Not to mention the wind—"

"Calculate for the wind."

"Enough," Greg demands and there's radio silence. "Just set up where you can until we get there. Wordy's taking the rig. I'm taking the truck we'll be there in—"

"Are you sure that's a goo—"

He doesn't give Ed a chance to finish, because he's tired of hearing the different reason that Wordy shouldn't be on this team anymore. He's one of the few people that are actually doing their job right today. "Yes I am, Ed. That's why I said we're doing it."

Greg holds the comm. link in place and turns to Wordy to get his attention. "Wordy, you feel okay to drive?"

"Of course." He smiles and Greg remembers the friend part of him that's buried underneath the rubble of this job.

"Good. Take Spike."

"Boss we got a problem."

"What is it now Sam?"

"I have visual on the driver of the jeep. It's a woman, she's young. I'd say early twenties."

"Okay?" He holds his ear piece in place and waits for the problem. The way the day is going their might as well be two or three jeeps in that lot with two or three bombs a piece.

"Boss, she's pregnant."

* * *

><p>What the hell is up with Sam? She sits quietly in one of the swiveling chairs beside Spike who's typing like a fiend trying to find any images of a red Jeep but it's Toronto in the Summer and without narrowing down with a specific license plate they might as well not even have the car make.<p>

She swivels left. Then right. A weak squeak escapes the chair with each turn. Is he honestly that pissed at her because she didn't text him from the hospital? Her phone is broken. And then Sarge just randomly yells at her? It is definitely not Jules Day today.

Squeak. He sees her for the first time since softly embracing her in front of the emergency entrance at North York and doesn't say a thing. Doesn't respond. Doesn't at least smile in relief that she's okay and only had to get a few pieces of duct tape to pull her skin together. All because she didn't text?

Squeak. No it can't be that. Something has to have happened between when he dropped her off and when they picked her up. What could've taken place in that twenty minutes to make him that flat-out pissed?

Squeak. She thinks he said something to her about the Sarge earlier after getting her out of the wreck. Was she supposed to do something and forgot? Well, other than text and she didn't forget. She glances down at her stomach, now covered by a brand new bullet proof vest. The other thing she forgot to do nine weeks ago isn't her fault. That was Sam's responsibility. That's going to be another fun fight in a growing series.

Squeak. Whatever. She'll deal with him after work when the pain in her face is ten times what it is now, which is just on the cusp of unbearable. He'll yell at her for not calling or whatever she did and she'll say that her face hurts and that surprise she's pregnant and then throw her broken cell phone at the back of his big stupid head.

She plants her feet on the floor and questions why she's so upset. Maybe part of her, part because that's all she's willing to admit to, misses the fact that he's always doting on her. After growing up in a household with five men who didn't give a shit about her from the time of birth until she left, it's nice to have one who cares about every single molecule of her life like it's his own.

It's nice until he notices a bruise or a cut and goes insane with questions. It's part of their job. Everyone gets them, but for some reason if she is even slightly battered the world will come to an end. At least his world will. This concern is not even close to being equally distributed among them. Mainly because Sam never gets hurt because he's usually in a Sierra position. But he did procure an injury three months into their re-relationship and she did not respond in a near appropriate manner.

"What?" The keys to his apartment jingled in his hand and he gave her a nervous kind of smirk because she kept stealing glimpses of him the entire ride home.

She set her jaw to keep from breaking out into laughter again. "Nothing." Then she reached a hand forward and delicately touched the puffy skin underneath his right eye. "I still can't believe that guy hit you."

Sam shook his head and unlocked the door. "I still can't believe that Spike had the reflexes to dodge it."

He let her into the apartment first and the cool burst of air conditioning was refreshing after spending all day in the horrid June weather. "You got punched today," she repeated chuckling a little.

"It's actually not that funny, Jules."

This made her laugh aloud and when she turned around Sam appeared less than amused. He rolled his eyes as he threw his gym bag onto the kitchen island. Then, like counting the seconds between a flash of lightening and a roll of thunder, in her mind she counted how long it would take before Sam checked himself out in a mirror again.

When he saw that she was still on the verge of laughter he continued, "This is going to take at least a week to go away."

"It won't take that long." When she ricocheted off the side of the Eaton's Center, the bruise on her back went away in less than a week. When she didn't do the double drop properly, her bruised knee went away in less than a week. The only thing that's ever taken her more than a week to heal from is the gun shot.

He moved from the kitchen to the hall and began to examine the purple skin by prodding a fingertip into it. Thirty-seven seconds. "When we go out in public, people are going to think you did this."

She laughed at him as she opened the freezer and retrieved an icepack, the same one he held to her knee all night long three months ago. "Better than telling them the truth."

"Oh my God, Sammy." Natalie rounded the corner with her overnight luggage and Jules felt a mixture of amusement and annoyance. Natalie was supposed to be out of the apartment by the time they returned from work, something not hard to do when you have no job or prior responsibilities, but it would give her a chance to hear the story.

She was pulling on his face, French manicured nails sliding dangerously close to unprotected corneas. Jules leaned her back against the counter and watched. "What happened?"

"Yeah Sam," She goaded with raised eyebrows. "What happened?"

He gave her a sideways glare because Natalie still had him trapped in her talons. "I got punched at work."

"Oh my God." She released his face and covered her mouth with her hands in an overdramatic gesture.

Jules crossed her arms over her chest. "Tell her the whole story, Sam."

"Nah." He shook his head and moved away from his still shocked sister. "She's got places to be and we've got a movie to catch."

"Sammy, tell me."

He sighed and sent Jules another glare, then turned his attention back to his sister. "We were called to a bomb scare downtown so we were evacuating some of the buildings around the hotspot."

"Sam and Spike were sent to evacuate a retirement home," she added to speed up the punch line.

"Basically there was this one old guy who refused to leave. And he punched me in the face."

"Aww Sammy." She touched his cheek again but her smile broke into laughter and then Jules started to laugh again.

"Yeah, yeah." He swatted her hand away and moved towards the bathroom, probably to jab and examine his injury in peace.

When the bathroom door closed Jules shook her head at Natalie, who was still recovering from learning the truth. She wiped at the dark makeup drawn underneath her eyes and then turned to Jules. "We shouldn't laugh at him you know."

"Oh?" She placed the icepack back into the freezer because apparently it wasn't going to be used, and then supposed that Sam's gym bag was left for her to deal with. When she complained about it later he said that he was injured.

"Anna and I got picked on a lot on the base." Natalie tried to adjust her shirt strap, but remembered to late that she was wearing a strapless summer dress. "Sam used to get into a lot of fights with the guys who said mean things about us."

"Really?" She stopped rifling around in the smelly gym bag and turned her full attention to Natalie

"Yeah he'd just come home with a black eye or split lip." She reached down and picked up her overnight bag. Then reached for a bowl on coffee table to retrieve her keys. "Our dad would scream at him, but the teasing stopped."

When Sam came back from the bathroom, probably waiting for more ridicule she hugged him, shoved the icepack into his hand and told him to sit down on the couch. They ordered pizza and watched some stupid movie about robots that she still doesn't understand. He ended up falling asleep with his head in her lap, while she held the pack to his eye and smoothed out his blonde hair.

"You okay?" Spike questions. He's holding the microphone to the comm. link away from his mouth and observing her with a raised eyebrow. His nose and lips are beginning to swell and she wonders if they're sharing the same amount of pain.

"Fine. Why?" She turns her attention back to the monitors, pretending that she's been following everything that he's been doing for the last however many minutes they've been in the truck. Time stands still here. She doesn't know how Spike can do it most shifts.

Spike shrugs and moves back to typing faster than any human being should be able to. "You stopped squeaking."

Over her comm. link the white noise that's been filtering through slowly becomes more distinct and she starts to recognize the Team's voices. There's just bickering. A lot of bickering going on between Sam and Ed and she hopes he gets it out of his system now, because she's starting to feel tired and she doesn't know if she has a good fight left in her.

"Guess I'm going with Wordy." Spike doesn't sound hesitant or bothered to be riding with Wordy driving. He seems more upset that he has to move after just getting to sit down. He reaches down to touch his leg but his fingers curl because he knows he shouldn't. His hands end up tapping against the console to hide his pain. "It's starting to sting again."

Jules raises her eyebrows and smiles sympathetically. She's not one to complain about injuries, she'd rather hear about other people being hurt than tell people how much she's hurt. She watches as Spike tries to keep his leg straight and move through the confined space of the truck and if the whole scene wasn't so sad it would almost be funny.

"Did they even give you anything?"

"What?" She swivels in the chair because he's almost at the back door.

He chuckles and asks, "Did you even ask for anything?"

"For what?"

"Your face."

She could take offense and pretend like he was playing it as a joke, but they're both too tired for that. Instead she shakes her head, "No."

Sam's tense voice interrupts over the comm. link and he states physical attributes about the bomber and ends with, "She's pregnant."

Jules and Spike share a look because that eliminates all use of lethal force. Basically eliminates everything except a successful negotiation, which she wonders if any of them have in them. And pregnancy today, what is it a freaking epidemic?

Sarge opens the door and Spike almost stumbles over the back lip of the truck and face first into the rain. Lucky, Wordy, the man that no one thinks has any stability, catches him and helps him out of the vehicle. Sarge closes his eyes and shakes his head as Wordy and Spike hobble past him. "Jules, front seat."

Before she can stop it, the pressure of everything she's had to deal with today from learning she's pregnant to not being able to finish her stupid decaf-because-she's-pregnant coffee spills out of her mouth in the form of pure, unbridled sarcasm. "I thought I wasn't supposed to leave the truck."

Thankfully, Sarge seems to be having the same kind of day she is and volleys back her serve. "You're not leaving the truck, you're just moving to the front seat."

She doesn't scramble out of the back of the truck. Doesn't rush through the rain because she's still wet from the last time she moved from the rig to the truck or was it the hospital to the rig? This whole day that's amounted to less than four hours is staring to melt together.

The truck is silent and she wonders if this is what Sam had to deal with the entire morning. The windshield wipers have the same squeak and the thumping of the rain against the roof is almost soothing enough to let her fall asleep.

But then Sarge clears his throat. She glances over at him and his hands are hitting against the steering wheel. "I'm, um—I'm sorry if I snapped at you earlier."

Well that's new. "It's okay." She waves it off and stares at the wipers trying to find the piece of debris that's making them squeal but they're moving too fast and she's afraid the repetitive motion is going to make her sick. "We're all having one of those days."

"Yeah," Sarge agrees in a tone that expresses so much more than words ever could. His fingers twitch against the wheel again and he questions, "How are you feeling?"

"Fine." She hopes the answer is curt enough that it does warrant any more on the subject.

It's not. "I didn't put you in the truck because I question your ability or—" He pauses and his eyes narrow as he tries to think of the right words without upsetting her.

Something about the whole attempt is endearing and she smiles. "Sarge it's fine. Believe me; right now I'd rather be benched." She sighs and thinks about the research and the typing and the luminescent screens and the hours of security footage while her ass goes numb on the squeaky chair. "I just hate this truck so much."

He chuckles, "It's just for today."

"Yeah." She smiles again, but it's fake. It's not just for today. She doesn't know when she's going to tell Sarge or Ed that she's pregnant. Not now, Sam deserves to know first. But when she does, if she even gets to stay on active duty, the truck will become her new home. Who knows, maybe on the odd days she'll get to leave and actually go to a scene to do an interview. "So what's the plan?"

Sarge sighs. "Me on negotiation. Wordy gets Ed to safety. You and Spike looking up the subject. And Sam as Sierra 1."

* * *

><p><em>Next Chapter - Will be up after I get the feeling back in my butt. Seriously I'm on like two pillows and I can't feel a thing. All I will say is there will be a fight, a shot and a flight. <em>


	6. What's Important

_A/N: Well it's finally here. The final chapter. I've adopted a shorter writing style, which not only speeds up the process, but saves what little is left of my sanity. A special thanks to those of you who reviewed every chapter. Thanks very much, it means a lot to have such loyal readers. That being said, thanks to everyone who read. I'm glad to have entertained you for a short while. Let me know what your favorite parts were, or what you would love to see happen. Please enjoy. _

Domino Theory

Chapter 6

What's Important

The Boss slides a piece of paper across the debriefing table towards him. The table wobbles precariously at the slight movement and both men reach out to grab an edge and straighten it. "You need to sign the bottom," the Boss reminds and slides a pen across the unstable surface.

Sam catches it with a single hand movement. Then hurriedly rushes the tip of the pen over the thick black line at the bottom of the page. Just where Sarge promised it would be. He shoves both pen and paper back. They've already gone over protocols and procedures and how he broke them to get his girlfriend out of the wreck of a rig and to a hospital. Sarge was nice enough to leave out the 'girlfriend' bit though. He did, after all, promise them a week to break up without any ramifications.

Sam left out the 'pregnant' part. He covers his eyes with a hand and tries not to feel as scared, and as nervous, and as furious as he does. It's exhausting because he's almost past the initial rage and now he's thinking of the millions of things that could have gone wrong with Jules inside that wreck. His mind keeps rewinding to her touching her stomach and crying. He thought she was in pain, when she must have been terrified the baby was hurt. Couldn't she have just told him? If she did, he probably would have had her from the wreck and to the hospital in less than five minutes, even if he had to run her there himself.

"Is everything okay Sam?" When he looks up Sarge has placed the disciplinary action sheet in a folder and is staring at him. Even if Sam didn't just find out that his girlfriend was pregnant a little less than two hours ago, he was basically told to break up with her or find a new job.

He doesn't mind transferring teams. He's actually been mulling the idea over for a while now. But he wouldn't be there to protect Jules now when she needs it more than ever. And oh God, what if she stays on duty. Are they just going to let her keep going out in the field? He's not going to be able to handle that. Every morning at seven he'll have a small heart attack.

"I'm fine." He exhales and rubs his forehead. They're done here and he wants to go home. He wants to think about what he has to do. He wants to think about it without distractions. Without Natalie begging him for the car, or Jules not telling him more things he needs to know. He just wants a weekend alone.

"All right," Sarge nods, holding the folder loosely in his hand and letting it slap against the tabletop. "Well, go home and have a good weekend."

Sam stands, and tries not to groan or makes a beeline for the door. "You too."

"You made a good call during the negotiation, Sam," Sarge adds before he's left the room and he doesn't even say anything back. They all seem to think so now, but he knows that there was call for him to have another, stricter ramification brought against him. It was another direct order that he violated, but apparently not killing someone is not the same as saving someone.

He managed to find a vantage point on top of a mound of dirt machines unearthed. Thankfully there was so much of it that it hadn't become a total mudslide and he was able to find stability at the apex. It reminded him of Afghanistan. It reminded him of being young and having no worries or responsibilities. Of getting muddy and dirty and staying that way for weeks at a time. Of knowing his squad inside and out one day and then finding people missing the next day.

Of course they stopped the girl, Melissa Old, before she entered the actual construction site. So he had the torrential rains and the high winds which led to zero visibility to deal with. She was unarmed with a gun, but before they could stop her she lugged the bomb out of her car. It was only a single propane tank, but still a bomb. It could have been reinforced by something. None of them had a good angle. Aside from that she was still a girl, far enough in her pregnancy to be showing, holding a bomb. They went on the assumption that the bomb was set to go off at 10:30, which meant they had less than seven minutes.

Sarge tried to talk her down because she was apparently suicidal and would've rather died in the blast with her unborn baby than let them just have the bomb. Jules and Spike found out that she was a recovering addict who fell off the train. The whole thing was getting to Sam. Half an hour ago he nothing really accomplished. He was discharged from the army, he was had a stint as Team Leader that was over in the blink of an eye and his longest relationship was probably going to end that weekend.

Now he had a baby. Well not really a baby, but the beginnings of a baby. And no matter how pissed off at Jules he was right now, or how pissed he would remain at her for the next day, or week or month or nine months, no one was going to touch her or that baby. He grunted into the rain and closed an eye as he looked down the telescope.

Push came to shove and six minutes plus change became two. Sarge paced on the spot as Melissa escalated. He talked of her other child. A son apparently who had an affinity for drawing cows. But she kept talking about 'capitalists and dominos' and the propane tank clunked against her thigh while her fingers turned red, then white from the pressure of holding it.

Ed recommended taking the shot. It was a less lethal shot, but a shot to a pregnant woman nonetheless. With the crazy wind and rain, Sam didn't want to be the one to be off by a millimeter and not hit her in the forearm. He couldn't live with that. Wordy argued. Spiked argued. Jules, probably feeling he didn't know what, argued. And Sarge told him Scorpio.

So he shot.

Ed had his disciplinary meeting before Sam; Sarge probably planned it that way so Sam could give Jules a ride home in peace without prying eyes. Give them one last weekend or whatever. It's not going to be like what the Boss thinks it is.

Sam shuffles down the echoing hallways, they got back to headquarters at a little after eleven. Debriefing took five minutes, and since it's a little after twelve now, everyone is gone. He passes the door to the women's locker room and hears the shower going. Well almost everyone.

He kind of body checks the door to the men's locker room with his shoulder because he's so drained. Maybe he'll play hockey tomorrow. He hasn't been playing that much lately since he and Jules haven't spent a night apart in at least a month, probably more. He'll call up the guys for a game, they'll rag on him for being whipped and then he'll slam into them on the ice. It seems like a fair trade.

The locker room is deserted and he's grateful for that. He doesn't know if he could deal with everyone coming up to him and congratulating him on a 'job well done out there', or his 'nice shot'. Sometimes he wonders what he would've been if his dad didn't pressure him into the family business. Anna's a journalist, and his parents are full of disappointment. Natalie is homeless and unemployed and they're full of disappointment. He did two tours, and is an SRU officer and they're full of disappointment. He wonders if his child will be disappointed in him too.

He showers quickly and changes back into the clothes he was wearing when he came into work five hours ago. When his biggest problem was Jules taking too long in the bathroom in the mornings. When he wanted to define their relationship more. Well, now they're going to break up and he's going to be a father. How's that for some definition?

He's going to be a father. It still doesn't feel real. It doesn't feel concrete. It doesn't give him the feeling he thinks that it should. He should be excited, because it's Jules and him and a baby. But he doesn't feel anything. He doesn't feel anything negative, aside from the general displeasure and burning rage that accompanied being told of his impending fatherhood by Steve the freaking paramedic, who he doesn't like again. But he doesn't feel burdened, or like this baby is going to ruin their lives. Basically, their lives were as ruined as they could get.

The hallway is still empty and he thinks that the replacement team, probably Team Two, those cocky S.O.B.s, are on their way in. When he glances down to the debriefing room, Sarge is gone and he feels like the last person in the world. Except when he walks past the women's locker room the shower is still going. He checks his watch and five minutes sneak past, then ten and then finally the pipes groan as the shower turns off. She's still taking forever in the bathroom.

Something inside him snaps and he's not putting up with it anymore. He had to wait for this all day. From the moment Steve's stupid goofy lips started moving in slow motion. Sam uses a clenched fist and pounds on the door to give her a warning.

"Indecent." Her voice sounds hoarse and unamused.

He doesn't care. He rips the door open and walks into the humid vapors. They're having this talk. They're discussing their future. They're making a decision about next Friday. They're talking about her being pregnant and how long she's been that way because he's sure it's been more than just today. Hell, they can pick out baby names and nursery colors if that's what gets him a decent weekend alone.

* * *

><p>Spike pulls at the handle to his locker, but the door doesn't budge. Cocking an eyebrow, he glances down to the lock in his palm then back at the jammed door. When he first started at the SRU six years ago he got the crap locker. He was the rookie then. But now Sam is still, technically, the rookie, so technically shouldn't he have the stupid locker that isn't cut properly? Shouldn't he have to deal with the eternal struggle of trying to open the damn locker everyday and the screeching of metal on metal?<p>

On the other side of the locker room Ed and Wordy break out into low bickering and Spike wants to scream. Can't they let it go for a single second? Everything turned out fine, they all get to go home for an early weekend and- Jesus, he's even offered to fix the damn locker himself, but Sarge probably thought he was joking. He's not joking. If on average he wastes five minutes a day fooling around with this locker, that's twenty-five minutes a week, or thirty when he does overtime. That's roughly two hours a month. That's an entire day every single year he's wasted fighting with this freaking door.

He gives the handle a violent tug and it opens, still vibrating from the force he's used. All of the pictures on the inside of the door are mixed up from the movement and the stuff on his shelf threatens to fall kamikaze over the edge.

"You could at least thank me for not telling the Boss what you did today."

"Ed, I don't need you to do me any favors okay?"

Spike shakes his head. They should all be uniting after a day like today. So many things could have gone wrong, but they all managed to make it out alive and the Christian in him thinks that they should be grateful. The Roman in him thinks that they should all go out drinking. Every time someone suggests it, everyone makes up excuses. They haven't gone out since Lew's wake and that was God awful.

He picks up the pile of clothes he dropped at his feet before starting his struggle with Satan's door, and shoves them into his gym bag. His mom is going to have a stroke when she sees his leg injury and his face, which he'll downplay for her. He's seen the purple and red swelling underneath his nose and around his lips. It's Friday, a weekday, which means that it's probably lasagna for supper. He wonders if he can guilt her out of the lasagna for just one night.

Before closing the gym bag up, he reaches in and retrieve's Natalie's earring. For sentimental, or nostalgic, or maybe even masochistic reasons he places it in the back pocket of his jeans again. After everything that's happened today, it just feels right.

In the bottom of his bag, his cracked phone rings out the Ocho Rios song. Spike leans against the lockers with one arm and blindly fumbles about in the depths of the bag until he retrieves the phone. It has to be his mom, there's no way she hasn't see the explosion. She's probably cooking up a big feel better lasagna just for him.

"Hello," he sighs into the phone.

"Hey Spike." It's Natalie. Again.

His eyes dart around the locker room to instinctively look for Sam, but her brother must still be getting his disciplinary report done. "Hey—" But then he notices Ed and Wordy staring at him, all grins. "—You."

"I've been watching the news all day. I mean, they keep showing that explosion. Are you sure you're okay? I'm, like, I'm really worried and—"

"No, no." He watches Ed cross his arms with interest and lean against the opposite set of lockers. Waiting for some slice of information to escape so that for the next week, maybe even month they can make fun of Spike like this is middle school. "I'm fine. We get the afternoon off."

"I'm bugging you aren't I?" She must sense the change in his voice because her jovial and speedy tone take a sudden nosedive. "I swear I'm not trying to be clingy. I was just worried."

Spike examines the bemused expression on Ed's face, and the smirk that Wordy is hiding. He tries to think about the last time a girl genuinely cared about him that wasn't his mom, or Carmen, or some other female relative. He thinks of Nat's picture on his phone and the crack running through her face. If he wants an authentic relationship with her, Sam and the guys are eventually going to find out. He has to decide if she's worth the ridicule.

Family and love are what drove Melissa, their domestic bomber, to do what she did that day. He can't honestly say now that the day is over, that he blames her. He get's where she's coming from, what she had to face. Basically just one downfall after another.

He and Jules were still annexed in the truck doing research on Melissa Old, born December 24, 1987. Christmas Eve baby. She had a son. A five-year-old son. Has a baby on the way. She was raised in foster care and abused. She had a crack problem because of the past abuse but got over it. She has a crack problem now because of her current situation.

They watched over surveillance as Sarge got her calm, but she re-escalated close to the final two minutes on the bomb's timer. The propane tank kept hitting against her thigh and he grinded his teeth. If it hit hard enough, that might be all it needed to explode. They were running out of time, and options. They had no other options except negotiation. At least that's what he thought.

"Give the call," Ed said over the comm. link and he and Jules shared a glance.

"No." Wordy immediately answered.

Melissa was still screaming words that sounded more like the high-pitched remixes he'd heard in the club last night with Natalie. Her face was red with pain and tears. Her black hair whipped all around in the rain and wind. Spike knew they were at less than two minutes.

"Boss, maybe think about—" He began but was interrupted.

The Boss said, "Scorpio."

"No." Jules tried to push her chair away from the monitor, but forgot it was stuck in place. She covered her mouth and turned away.

A shot rang out and Spike had to put away his personal views on the situation. He could hold onto them for the debriefing that would never happen, but right now they needed someone to disarm the bomb.

While the gunshot still echoed in his ears he was out of his chair and hobbled out of the back of the truck. To his surprise, Wordy and Ed had Melissa in cuffs. Sarge told them to get her behind the truck and Sam ran to help disarm the bomb.

The bomb was overly simple. Two wires. One in, one out. Spike sat with his knees at awkward angles in the mud. He felt like a toddler in his Poppy's vegetable garden again. The rain fell down the open back of his coat and down his neck.

Sarge stood with them even though he couldn't help. The counter was just under a minute now. "Take your time."

At the end of Sarge's sentence, Spike had pulled out the wire and the clock stopped. It took three seconds.

"No it's not you, Nat." He grins when he speaks her name and wonders if Ed and Wordy even remembers who she is. "I'm just pretty tired right now. But I was thinking we could go out for dinner on Sunday. Somewhere nice."

There's actual silence on Natalie's end of the phone and he doesn't know if that's a good thing or not. "You want to take me out for dinner?" Her voice is high and genuinely touched. Maybe she thought he was done with her.

"Yeah, but I'll need a few days to get my face looking as good as it usually does."

She giggles, "All right. It's a date."

"All right. I'll call you Sunday." He ends the call and shuts off his phone. When he chances a glance up, Wordy and Ed are still watching him, all goofy grins and wiggling eyebrows.

"Well, well, well." Ed approaches him with his arms crossed and an entertained smile on his lips. "Who's this Nat?"

"Just someone that I hit it off with." Spike grabs his gym bag. The strap is still messed up and it slides down his arm again.

"Wait. Nat, like Natalie?" Wordy brings a finger to his chin in contemplation. "Don't we know someone named Natalie?"

"Nope." Spike shakes his head and manages to push past Ed. He's got at least three full nights to recover until the guys start haranguing him in the locker room about Natalie and Sam overhears and things breakdown. But he'll worry about that on Monday.

Spike limps out into the empty corridor and into the lobby. Winnie gives him a bright grin and he nods to her. He stands solitary before the elevator and scans left, then right for any sign of Jules. She has to let him use the elevator today. He disarmed the bomb and saved them all. Plus he has a leg injury. Plus if he says anything he'll casually mention Sam in passing.

The elevator dings and he hobbles inside and presses the 'G' button. Then he smashes his thumb into the 'close door button' several times because he may be a little nervous. The elevator dings three times in resistance. The doors close part way, then open again and a low buzz emits from inside. Spike sighs and looks up as the doors wait to decide if they want to close or remain open forever. He's definitely eating lasagna tonight.

* * *

><p>"Ed, I got to say." The Boss removes his hat and shakes his head. His jaw is set and Ed already knows that he doesn't want to be doing this. That it's part of the job overly enforced by the omnipresence of Toth. "You really screwed up today."<p>

Ed shrugs. Plays it nonchalant, because in the end no one died. It would be different if his actions resulted to Team One not getting to the bomb on time. If it blew up Runnymede Road, or half of Junction, or kids at the nursery school a few blocks over. Then he would feel guilty. Right now he did the job the way he knows how. "We got the girl and the bomb."

Greg lets out a rueful chuckle. "Yeah we got her, but the way you acted today didn't help that much."

Ed leans forward, hands clasped together on top of the wobbly table. He vaguely remembers the debriefing about the eighteen-year-old kid a few weeks ago. How things got out of hand. How the Boss's fist came down and destroyed the structural integrity of the table. "I was just doing my job Greg."

"You ignored the 'first to respond' protocol. You left Spike and Jules in that rig."

"And they ended up being fine."

"You abandoned Wordy, of all people, at a bomb site."

That wasn't his fault, but he thought of his friend and how maybe he hasn't been that easy to get along with lately. Going into this meeting he knew he was going to take the fall. He owes Wordy that much and maybe after a long weekend of teaching Clark how to parallel park and Izzy's 'Daddy and Me' class, maybe he'll be a better friend on Monday. "We were running out of time. We had half an hour and two sites to check. What if the bomber came back after we left?"

"Then we deal with it." The Boss answers, his voice is tense. There's silence in the room for a minute as he scribbles things onto the piece of paper before him. The table wobbles back and forth. "Wordy wouldn't have left you."

Wordy did leave him, but then came back for him. Wordy managed to do stealth, and slunk along the outskirts of the parking lot. Ed watched as his friend moved past the dirt mound Sam was perched upon. Ed wasn't worried about the subject identifying himself or Wordy. Visibility outside of a six foot radius was close to zero with the wind shield and the rain. He was worried about Wordy falling and giving away his position. In a sick way, that might give them the upper hand, the moment Ed needed to rush out and overtake the young girl.

Spike's voice over the link interrupted the Boss's negotiation attempts. The girl still hadn't given them a solid response. From the outline of her body language in the rain Ed was willing to bet it was drugs.

Spike said that her name was Melissa Old, and that she was twenty-three. The Boss said they needed more to go on then that. Spike said they were still searching through files.

Ed heard crunching as Wordy approached him, he hoped with an assault rifle. "Spike. Look into drug use."

Wordy stumbled into the passageway next to him; water cascaded off his coat and splattered onto the dusty ground. He gave Ed the only rifle he'd brought, "Please don't use this."

"I hope I don't have to." He answered and moved back to the mouth of the passageway. He had zero visibility, but if he was given the order, he could move out and find a vantage point, maybe from behind the girl. "Boss, I'm armed."

"That's a negative, Ed." The Boss replied in mid-negotiation, sensing what he wanted to do. "Stay where you are."

So they did his least favorite thing and waited. Five minutes bled to four, then to three and then two. He started to feel it, the pressure in his chest, the knowledge that something was going to happen in the next two minutes whether it was that girl going down or that bomb going off.

"He's got call it." He told Wordy.

His friend shook his head. "No, there's still time."

"There's no time to take down the girl and disarm the bomb." He activated his comm. link and told his boss what everyone knew, but were afraid to say. What he had to say because he was still Team Leader even if it meant putting a bullet in a pregnant girl. "You have to call it."

"No," Wordy shouted into the link.

"Boss, maybe think about—" Spike began, but never finished.

Another ten seconds wasted away while there was radio silence. He couldn't see the Boss's outline from where he stood and that made Ed more anxious. Finally there was the word of relief. "Scorpio."

A second of hesitation, maybe less. As a sniper he caught it. He doesn't know if anyone else did, but then the shot rang out. He and Wordy ran out, but the girl wasn't injured, just distracted. Sam had fired into the air. It was a dangerous move. Stray bullets in this weather usually don't go where you want them to. Either way the situation could've ended badly. They were lucky that day, not talented or professional. Just lucky.

"Look Greg." He relaxes in the chair and tries to explain it the way he understand it. "We're a team; we all have our strength and weaknesses. Part of being in a team is to cover other people's weaknesses. My strength is physical. I want to catch the guy. Sam's strength relies more on emotions. He'd rather make sure everyone's okay."

"Are you saying that's a bad thing?"

"No. In fact I think we should focus more on that."

"What do you mean?"

"Greg," he sighs, unsure of how to word his revelation so it doesn't sound weak or unappreciative. "I'm not cut out to be Team Leader anymore. With everything at home." he shakes his head and straightens in the chair. "I try to rush through things at work and it's dangerous to everyone."

"I see." Greg slides the piece of paper over to Ed. His face doesn't express any emotion, not even surprise at the disclosure. "You need to sign."

Ed grabs the black pen and quickly scribbles away at the bottom of the page without even reading what was written. If it's bad it will get back to him eventually anyway. He hands the page back and stands. "So you'll talk it over with Sam?"

"Well, I don't know if Sam is the ideal candidate. I do have to write him up after you."

"Don't take too long." He pauses in the doorframe and remembers that this is an important day for his friend. "You'll miss your flight."

* * *

><p>Wordy grins at the faces of his daughters hanging inside his locker. Lilly's newest school picture is taped to the top beside Maggie's. He can't believe she started kindergarten this year. Ally can start junior kindergarten next year, but he'd rather her have another full year at home with Shelley. That might not be an option if he has to leave the SRU. His fingers, for now, remain still against the cool metal door.<p>

It's been a long day, and he's ready to go home early and surprise Shelley and Ally. First he'll stop by the school, like he promised Lilly he would. Talk to her teacher, her principal, that Martin kid if he has to. No one should be touching any of his girls. He'll pop by Maggie's class too, just to make sure she's okay. The transition from being at home all day, to being in a classroom full of children she doesn't know has got to be shocking. He just wants her to know that he's still here for her.

Ed pushes through the locker room door, finished his write up and ready to go home. "Sam," he calls. "Boss wants to see you."

Sam's sort of hunched over on the bench. He hasn't changed out of his muddy uniform, hasn't showered, and hasn't really said a word since they got back from the hot call. It's been a long day and that day has only been four hours. They should all be grateful that they don't have to stay on for the full shift. Sam pushes himself up and walks slowly to the door. "Yeah, I know."

Wordy knows things have transpired off the comm. link today. That Sam has obviously done something to warrant a personal disciplinary report along the likes of the two Ed's placed under his belt a few minutes ago. There used to be a time when they could all go out for drinks and talk about it. But it's a little before noon and drinking right now is only apt to making him more depressed. Plus Spike and Jules are likely on pain medication.

"Sam," Wordy calls out before he's left the locker room. Instead of offering to buy him a drink for the misfortunes he's suffered today, Wordy offers, "You did really well out there."

"Yeah." He nods, his tone not really responding well to the compliment as he restlessly pulls open the door. "Thanks."

The door squeaks shut behind him. Wordy and Ed watch for a few seconds in a silent contemplation. Behind them, Spike returns from the showers, trying to juggle his clothes. What they've all been through today, what they're going to go through next week and the week after that. Are they really going to able to keep it together enough to remain a team?

Ed turns away from the door and moves to his locker to collect his bag. "That was a little cocky."

"I don't he's being cocky, I think something's wrong."

Ed chuckles. "There's something wrong with all of us. It doesn't mean we have to be assholes about it."

Wordy grins, a wide spread, all knowing grin. "Well if it isn't the pot calling the kettle black?"

He doesn't think Ed's an asshole. Even now, after many weeks of being tormented by his friend because of his illness. Ed's stubborn and adamant. Ed's way is the only way, which is why the man can't understand the feelings of his teammates so well anymore. It's why he's usually put in a Sierra position instead of a negotiation position.

When they stood in the passageway to the construction site and Ed eyed the rifle that Wordy carried, he reluctantly handed it over. It was Ed being adamant, and for safety reasons. It's not like they could see anything from their position anyway. It's not like Ed would actually shoot a pregnant woman.

"You have to call it." Ed demanded into the comm. link. Call it as in end two lives at once. There was still a way to avoid this. There's always a way.

"No." Wordy yelled. There was too many things wrong with this picture. You didn't shoot pregnant women. They couldn't even be around the sound of gunshots because it was disturbing to the baby. He'd read it somewhere when Shelley was pregnant with Ally. You didn't taser them. You helped them with their groceries or across the street. You gave up bus and subway seats for them. The whole thing gave him a brief, but vivid flashback to Shelley when she was married, but not to him.

"Scorpio."

The shot rang out and he ran. He hoped that the wind had taken the bullet somewhere else. That the rain had pushed it into the ground. But when he got to her, Melissa was standing fine. Just confused and crying. He took the bomb from her hand, talked to her calmly and by then Ed was there ready with cuffs. Wordy realized only after Spike disarmed the bomb, that Sam had fired into the air.

"Hey Boss," Wordy greets as he enters the empty debriefing room. The Boss is sitting with his elbows on the table that he broke a few weeks earlier at their last, true debriefing. No one on the team has mentioned anything about it, but the broken piece of furniture is like a constant reminder of their inability to work together.

The Boss's eyes dart over and his hands move up to cover his mouth. He looks tired. "What's on your mind Wordy?"

Wordy leans against the frame of the doorway over choosing to take a seat. He and the Boss both have other things to do; he wants to make this short and sweet. "I just wanted to let you know that it was my idea to leave Ed today at Jane Street. Not the other way around."

The Boss leans back his chair and sighs. "It's very nice of you to come forward. But Ed is still Team Leader. And as Team Leader he should have had enough morality to know not to leave you or any other person behind."

Wordy nods, understanding the importance of communication, of cooperation, of the basic skills his daughters are learning in school right now that they can't manage on Team One. "I just didn't want him to get blamed for something that wasn't his fault."

The Boss nods lethargically into his hand and a smile pulls at the corner of his lips. "You put up with a lot from him."

Wordy shrugs as he turns in the doorway to go home to Shelley and the girls. "It's what friends do."

* * *

><p>Rain lightly taps against the bay windows as Greg sits in a row of empty chairs. In the last hour the weather has lightened and the forecast has called for clearer skies tonight. It's supposed to rain all weekend though. His fingers tap on the chair's arms and for the fifth time in the last minute and a half he checks his watch to make sure that he's not going to be late, even though he's exactly where he needs to be.<p>

He's tired of thinking about what transpired today. About formally disciplining Sam, even though he knows that the kid's heart is probably going to be broken this weekend. About formally disciplining Ed, when the guy has so much piled on his plate that he can't see straight. Ed requested a reduced role, but who was going to step up as Team Leader. Sam was the only logical candidate, but he was purposely breaking probation and if Greg promoted him knowing this, it wouldn't look good.

Greg left without really saying a goodbye to anyone. Most of the team was gone by the time he was finished dealing with Sam. Wordy came to clear up what he'd already deduced, but he wasn't going to write Wordy up today as well. It had nothing to do with the Parkinson's. It had to do with the fact that Ed's been harder on the man than anyone else in the last few months, and yet Wordy manages to keep his clam and pleasant disposition.

Jules was still getting changed. By the end of the shift, she wasn't hiding her pain as well as she usually does, but he respected her enough not to ask about it. That would just upset her. He also didn't patronize her by asking how she would get home. He knows Sam will drive her. He doesn't want to know what's going on with her and Sam; he just wants it to end.

A plane ticket balances on his knee. It's not the same one that Dean sent him a few months ago; it's on a flight leaving an hour later. This one has no layovers so he should arrive just a few minutes later. He might miss the opening remarks, but he'll still manage to see his only son go up on stage and get a diploma. He wonders if he'll be under Parker, or his stepfather's last name.

A woman walks before him while holding the hand of her son who toddles beside her. She notices Greg and smiles. He smiles back and can't help but think about what happened earlier. Think about how lucky they all were. That hot call was a tightrope and they were all just one millimeter from teetering over the edge.

Melissa was agitated before they even started negotiations. Her fingers twitched with the corners of her mouth and when Ed suggested they look up drug use, as horrible as it sounded for someone as far along in her pregnancy to be using, it was the possible solution.

She held the bomb like high school girls hold their backpacks, like it was too heavy and if she dropped it, it might trigger. Rain poured over them and pasted her long dark hair to the side of her face. Her fingers wrapped around the ring on the top of the tank, turned white and twitched.

"Melissa," He called her attention back and she jerked inadvertently. Spike and Jules told him that she had past substance abuse. That she herself had been abused and her son was placed into foster care a few weeks earlier. "We found an interesting picture in with all your schematics. It was a cow. It looked like a child drew it."

She stopped twitching, stopped mumbling and glanced up at him through splits in her hair. "You got Alfie's drawing?"

"Yeah," he nodded and smiled at her. "Alfie's your son, right?"

"Yeah," she smiled too, dominant and nostalgic. The propane tank bumped against the top of her thigh as she seemed in a stupor. He thought about taking a step forward, about engaging her further but before he could, she stared at him through tear-filled eyes again. "Alfie's a good boy."

"Boss." Spike was in his ear again. "Four minutes."

"Would your son want you to be doing this, Melissa?"

His words set off a trigger, because she escalated just as quickly as he'd brought her down. "Alfie knows what they done isn't right. I tried to do good by him. I got a job; I was even doing night courses. But those capitalist pigs, they bought it all up. One by one. Falling dominos." She shook the hand holding the tank. "They don't care about me or him."

"Sarge, I got something." Jules interrupted. "Melissa filled out an application for low income housing in The Junction, but some of the land got bought out by corporations and she was denied."

"Melissa, I know that you're angry and that you made some bad choices." He took a cautious step forward and kept his ground when she didn't react. "But what about your baby? Are you willing to risk it's life and your own just to prove a point?"

"Two minutes, Boss."

"You need make the call." Ed pressured

"No." Wordy disagreed

"Boss, maybe think about—"

Melissa rested her free hand on top of her stomach and then looked back to him. "They're just going to take this one too."

He tried not to feel cold inside. Tried not to think about the billions of things that could go wrong as he uttered, "Scorpio" and waited for the shot. He and Melissa shared the same dazed expression, hers caused by drugs, by a broken mental state, by past turmoil. His caused by misunderstanding of why there was no injury until he realized that Sam had purposely misfired. A technique he would have never thought to use.

Simultaneously he watched as Ed and Wordy dealt with Melissa. He told them to take her to the truck, but Wordy was already heading in that direction. He also watched Sam and Spike disarm the bomb in three seconds by Spike merely tugging on a wire. He chuckled and slapped Spike on the back. "Good job, everyone."

The stewardess standing at the podium strikes up a microphone and announces over the P.A. system that flight 580 Toronto to Dallas is in the pre-boarding stage. Then announces it again in French. Greg nervously slaps the ticket against his knee. It's not the act of flying that makes him nervous, more the act of seeing his son and more over his ex-wife. Does she even know he's coming?

The woman with the small boy approaches the podium. The boy shoves a hand cautiously in his agape mouth as he stares outside the bay windows at the large plane. Greg smiles again. He never had a chance to take Dean on a plane. He wonders if he's afraid of flying? If he's been anywhere but Toronto? Does his son even know what he wants to do now that he's done high school?

Regular boarding is announced and he stands from the seat with a grunt from a long day's work compressed into only four hours. The stewardess grins at him with large white teeth as he hands her the ticket and his passport. He's going to have to make a list of questions to ask his son while he's on the plane.

* * *

><p>"Indecent. Indecent." Jules shouts and hops back into the shower slamming the door behind her because whoever has just entered the woman's locker room is deaf or has a death wish.<p>

She hears an all too familiar staccato exhalation, "It's just me, Jules." Of course it is.

"Are you insane?" She whispers harshly through the door. He might as well just given everything away to the team. Jesus, she wanted him to show a little more emotion, but talk about diving into the deep end.

"Everyone's gone home. We're fine."

"We talked about this, Sam." They did. They had a long and boring talk that involved her taking the side of no at work inter-locker room visitations. This is because one fateful time it resulted in some less than professional acts which almost exposed them in more than one way. After that she vetoed him stepping a foot through that door. "Winnie could have seen you. Or what if Ed did? Or Sarge?"

He sighs again, like her hypothetical situations make him tired. "Sarge knows."

Her heart stops. "No he doesn't."

"Yeah he does. He told me just before the explosion. I told you this already."

"When?"

"Before I took you to the hospital."

"I was a little preoccupied with a head injury, Sam." She opens the door a crack, just enough to hold out her arm. "Pass me my towel."

His running shoes, old ratty things not unlike hers, squeak across the floor and when he returns he places the blue towel in her hand. "Suddenly shy?"

"No, I'm wet, and I'm cold, and I really don't want to add anymore injuries to the list." It's a lie. She's mostly dry, but she's nine weeks pregnant and the light is good in here. Sam's got the sniper eyes and he might say something about her growing a cup size, which she thinks she hasn't yet, but he would know better than her. Or God forbid, he could say something about her weight. If he even mentions her weight she will punch him out right there and leave him for the weekend.

She moves out into the main area of the locker room wrapped in the towel and knows that he's watching her. The whole thing is eerily reminiscent of when she hit the side of the Eaton's Center, except they weren't together then. She catches him staring at her in the mirror and she grins; she thinks she likes it better this way. What was the name of that diner they went to for breakfast that day? It was good and she wants bacon.

Then she remembers what he said about Sarge. Again. She faces him, her back leaning against counter, her arms crossed over her stomach. "Sam, what are we going to do?"

Sam shrugs and sits down on the bench. He holds out the bag containing her clothing, a gesture telling her to hurry up. "He gave us an ultimatum. We have until next Friday to quit or break up so it's not really that important."

What? What? "How can you say it's not important?" How can he say that she's not important? Something feels broken in her chest and suddenly she doesn't want bacon anymore.

She felt this way when she heard the gunshot ring out, but she knew Sam. She knows him better than she knows anyone, and she knew there was no way that he would shoot a pregnant woman. After that Spike pressed past her and leapt out of the back of the truck like something from a carnival act and she didn't know what to do. She was annexed to the van, she apparently looked like the phantom of the opera, sans mask and there was nothing she could really do to help. Plus her fetus had already been in one explosion today.

She moved to the back doors of the truck because in his acrobatic prowess, Spike forgot to close them. Out of curiosity, she might have stuck her head out to see exactly what was going on. In the heavy rain, the cameras on the truck were rendered useless. Her head wasn't even out long enough for her bangs to get completely wet before Sam shouted into the headset, "Jules get back inside the truck." No wonder Sarge knew.

They rode back to headquarters in different rigs. Then automatically went to different changing rooms. She spent a good half an hour just staring at her face, which yes, did need a phantom of the opera mask and yes, did look like she went a round with Ali. It was puffy and sore and achy and whenever she made any expression it felt like she was being punched. But no one would ever know that.

"Jules, I think we have more important things to deal with right now"

"Really?" She barely comprehends him because she's so irritated. He's in her space, making her change in the darkest corner she could find, so he doesn't find out she's pregnant in the women's locker room at the SRU. "Like what?"

"Oh, I don't know." He shrugs and she knows he's up to something. Knows that it's going to be bad and knows that they're going to have a hug fight right in this room in less than a minute. He can't know she's pregnant can he? She bought the test. Hid it in an inside zipper in her purse. Threw it directly into the garbage chute. She tells herself to relax because unless he returned to the hospital to retrieve her and coincidentally met Sandra there's no way he can know.

"Oh, you know who I saw today?"

Her heart stops and she freezes on the spot. Her face does something weird akin to a deer caught in headlights and she to act inconspicuous. All she can manage is a single shake of her head.

"Steve."

Mother fuck it.

"You know, Steve the paramedic? You're ex-boyfriend?" Of course Sam would find out from Steve, the happiest guy in the world. Steve who's probably sent an email to everyone they went to school with in The Hat telling them she's pregnant. Her alcoholic father probably has a message on his goddamn answering machine from Steve saying 'Hey Jules is pregnant, congratulations'. She's going to punch Steve when she sees him again. "Man, he had some really interesting things to say."

She pushes the rest of her things out of the way and takes a seat next to him on the bench. "Sam, I'm so sorr—"

"God damn it, Jules." His face flushes and his hands clasp into fists in his lap. "I thought he was lying. I thought 'this guy doesn't know Jules like I do'. I thought 'Jules would tell me as soon as she thought she was'—" his voice cracks and he bows his head.

"Sam, I swear I only found out this morning."

"You did the test this morning? That's why you were late?"

Shit. "Yeah."

"Why didn't you just tell me?"

"We would have both been late and then everyone would have known—"

"Jules, we're going to have a goddamn baby. Everyone is going to know. Sarge knows now anyway." He pushes away from the bench, away from her and suddenly she feels so small. This all can't be her fault. "There has to be another reason you didn't tell me."

"I found out this morning." She reiterates through clenched teeth. Her voice is a little harsher and she's using all of her focus to keep the tears from shaking her voice.

Sam purses his lips and nods sternly three times. He crosses his arms and adapts the soldier stance and she knows that she's losing this fight. Whatever he wants, he's going to get because the side of her face is on fire and she just want to sleep. "How long did you think pregnancy was a possibility?"

She glances down. Fingers fidgeting against each other, against the hem of her top, against the lip of the bench. "Three weeks."

He nods some more and it's unnatural. She's never seen him this furious before. There have been times where Natalie does stupid things, like use his credit cards and he gets more of a disappointed than upset. Or times when his dad calls and Sam enters a moment of pure rage. But right now is like a mixture of all the different levels of angry she's ever seen Sam have, and the result is an eerie calm and a bobble head. "And in three weeks you couldn't say a damn thing to me?"

She puts a hand to her forehead and leans forward because the room is getting small, it's getting hot and her head feels tight. In a soft voice she doesn't even recognize as her own she begins, "It's not you, there's things that—"

"There are always things Jules. That's the great part about being in a relationship. I could help you with them, but you won't let me."

Her eyes close and she balances an elbow on her knee waiting for the fight to be over. She just wants to go home. Wants this day to be over.

He sighs. She hears the sound of water freefalling from the shower drain and of the fan in the far corner of the room whirring away. "I'm taking you to your apartment. And then I'm going home. I'll bring your car by Sunday night and maybe we can talk then. But I need to be alone this weekend to think."

She nods, but doesn't say a word. She doesn't know what Sam has to think about, but she wonders if he even wants to stay together. People have babies all the time and don't stay together. In a morbid way that would solve the ultimatum problem. Sunday night doesn't give them a lot of time to discuss anything before Monday.

Neither utters a single word as she gathers her remaining things. She puts her wet hair up into a loose bun and doesn't bother to reapply her makeup. With her face the way it is, it hardly matters anyway. She stuffs everything into her bag and when Sam isn't looking, slips something into his along with her Jeep keys. Maybe he'll find it this weekend and think about what's really important.

Her bag is heavier than usual, but she realizes she's lifting it with her right arm and the strap is pulling on her right shoulder, which took the brunt of the impact along with her face. She drops the bag to switch it to her left arm, but before she can hike it up, Sam's already got it paired with his. He stands at the door and beckons her with a stern nod of his head. It's going to be a long weekend.

* * *

><p><em>What's going to happen with Sam and Jules?<em>

_Should Spike pursue Natalie or go for that other girl (Andy?)_

_Should Ed step down from being Team Leader?_

_Is Wordy thinking of leaving the SRU (do I really have to start writing Raf now?)_

_What is going to happen in Dallas?_

_What did Jules put in Sam's bag?_

_Let me know what you think!_

_Next story is entitled blank. It doesn't have a title yet, but will pick up shortly after where Domino Theory left off. It will concern factories, gay rights, and protests. These issues are deeply personal for one SRU agent (and myself). Of course it will concern the entire team again and will be no one centric. Because Shiggity loves the world._


End file.
